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BUCK PARVIN 
AND THE MOVIES 

STORIES OF THE MOVING 
PICTURE GAME 

BY 

CHARLES E. VAN LOAN 

tl 

AUTHOR OF 

OLD MAN CURRY, SCORE BY INNINGS, 
FORE! Etc. 

INTRODUCTION BY 

GEORGE HORACE LORIMER 



GROSSET & DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 


Made in the United States of America 





COPYRIGHT, 1917, 

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


i&L 





Copyright, 1915-6, by P. P. Collier & Son, Incorporated 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 















My Dear Hobert Bosworth:— 

It pleases me to dedicate this book, BUCK PARVIN AND 
THE MOVIES, to you, the original Jimmy Montague of the 
stories, actor, scenario author and director. 

Half of the credit is yours and half of the blame; half of the 
bouquets and half of the brickbats—in fact half of everything 
connected with this volume, with the sole exception of the 
author’s royalties. I am making a collection of royalties at the 
present time. 

Joking aside — an author’s royalties are usually a joke — 
I wish thus publicly to acknowledge your valuable assistance 
in turning the film actor into fiction. But for this assistance, 
( the stories would not have been written. I trust the book re¬ 
viewers will remember this, in case they feel impelled to say 
harsh things. 

In case you never had a book dedicated to you before, let 
me explain that it is customary for one so honored to purchase 
as many copies of the book as possible—at the full list price — 
and distribute them among his friends. Your friends are legion. 
I hope you still count among them. 

Yours very sincerely, 

Charles E. Van Loan 

Los Angeles, Cal., 

August, 1915 







































LET’S GO! LET’S GO! 

BY GEORGE HORACE LORIMER 


Van Loan first lived, then wrote, his stories. 

|His heroes were his friends—the best ever; his 
villains were his enemies—the worst. They 
were never hearsay heroes or villains. He had 
met them all in the flesh and it was not until he 
knew them like a book that he put them in one. 
} Van wrote of baseball as a lifelong fan;, of 
golf with the sincerity of one who never al¬ 
lowed unfinished business to interfere with the 
unfinished game; of prize-fighting only after 
following the champ, through long weeks of 
training and thence into the arena; of horse- 
’racing as a keen observer of the sport from the 
stable to the betting ring; and of the pictures 
from personal knowledge of their every phase, 
including the law-suit that almost every author 
has had with some producer. 

I If a man is in any sense the sum total of 
his heredity, the ancestors of many writers 
must have led singularly dull lives. Van’s fore¬ 
bears, on the contrary, were an unusually busy 
lot—prominent cavemen, from whom the pre¬ 
historic Bolsheviki instinctively shied away; 
[vii] 








let’s go! let's go! 



well-known Aryan chiefs, who threw the spear 
with uncanny precision; hardy Vikings, blue-) 
eyed and red-headed, who were always ready in; 
their simple tenth-century way for a fight or 
a frolic; leading crusaders, who were confin-* 
ually on the jump for a dragon to slay or a lady 
to rescue; and restless, dauntless pioneers, al¬ 
ways pushing Westward until they came up 
against the Pacific. First and last Van's ances¬ 
tors must have met every one and have done 
everything worth while, from the days when 
they were happy, innocent troglodytes on up. 
Van himself used all their experiences and emo¬ 
tions in his stories—their loves, their hates, 
their generosities, their meannesses, their 
fights, their smugglings up—but most of all 
their splendid cleanness. For Van, too, lived a 
man's life and wrote man stuff. Love and sex 
get small place in his stories. Most men who 1 
have a clean punch in their fists have a clean! 
punch in their hearts, too; but Van's wife is the 
only woman who knows anything about that 
side of him. 

I first met Van some years ago when the 
moving-pictures were young and a trifle 
smudgy-faced. During a visit to Los Angeles/ 
I was struck with the possibilities of this new 
field for the fiction writer. But when I looked 
up Van with the idea of suggesting a series of 
stories to him, I found that he had anticipated 
me. For months he had been on “the lot" and 
had been admitted to full fellowship with every] 
[viii] 







let's go! let's go! 


one on it, from the extra men to the directors. 
In fact he was all over the lot, appraising the 
values of custard-pie drama for fiction, prob¬ 
ing the holiest emotions and the make-up of the 
he-dolls; lazying around and swapping stories 
with the extra men, giving his long wolf howl 
in the mob scenes, and looming vaguely through 
the smoke while the Battle of Gettysburg raged 
around him and the director, or while heroic 
firemen carried beautiful, helpless ladies out of 
burning buildings. Day after day, week after 
week, he lived the pictures until he knew them 
and the picture people. Then he wrote thig 
book. 

For the last six months of his life Van was 
one of my associates in editorial work. Out of 
his own knowledge, experience and understand¬ 
ing—for no one knew better the theory of 
short-story writing—he gave freely to every; 
young writer who needed a hand up. But 
though that association was a pleasant one, I 
like best to remember the days when we were 
out-of-doors together at the Grand Canyon. 
Van needed a mountain, a horizon-meeting 
desert or a canyon to set him off and give him 
room to play. At the Grand Canyon one can 
walk a few hundred yards in any direction from 
the hotel and find himself in a great pine forest, 
or a pathless desert, or the solitudes of the 
Canyon itself. It was there we met for a fort¬ 
night once or twice a year. 

Van’s coming always made itself felt far 
[ix] 







let's go! let's go! 


down the line beyond Williams, when the train¬ 
men began dropping back to the smoker to hear 
him talk. Last year a brakeman called np to 
me from a station platform: “Van went 
[through yesterday on number three,’’ and a 
; little later our conductor stopped and, smiling 
[reminiscently, exclaimed: “That Van Loan is 
'sure a case!” 

\ Baron Brant, the Hopis, the Navajos and all 
the old-timers were usually at the station to 
meet him, and as the train pulled in his long 
wolf howl went up in greeting. Then some way 
the Canyonside, that had been drowsing in its 
hushed, age-long way, woke up for an hour, 
with Van getting acquainted again and appar¬ 
ently in twenty places all at once. Over at Hopi 
house the drums beat louder and the Navajos 
danced more furiously; down at the corral the 
guides yelled their welcome; in the hotel lobby 
the Baron alternately beamed at Van’s affec¬ 
tionate epithet, “miserable old man,” and 
winced under the heavy hand of his friend; 
from the floor above, dignified old Thomas Mo¬ 
ran, irreverently dubbed Kid Moran by Van, 
left for a moment the picture that he was paint¬ 
ing; and along the rim the tourists received 
priceless, if somewhat fanciful, information in 
reply to their questions. 

A tourist on the Canyon’s rim, 

A simple tourist was to him, 

And nothing more. 

[x] 













let’s go! let’s go! 


Alas! even as he talked to them Van was siz¬ 
ing up some rock that was balanced temptingly 
over the abyss, for he had a vice. He liked to 
roll rocks and, unless he was watched, he rolled 
them. Once out beyond Desert View, forty 
miles up the Canyon, where there was no dan¬ 
ger of “beaning” an inoffensive tourist below, 
he triumphantly disclosed a crowbar that he 
had hidden under the carriage robe, and spent 
a pleasant afternoon working with my two boys 
to dislodge a rock that was as big as a piano . 1 
They were an hour putting it over, but what a 
noble smash it made, and how it did roll down 
that five thousand feet, and what a long wolf, 
howl of triumph Van let out as it toppled over 
the rim! Perhaps all this will make the judi¬ 
cious grieve, but then grieving is the best and 
about the only thing the judicious do. 

Half the time Van was an overgrown boy—* 
playing around like a shaggy, lumbering, bark¬ 
ing, pawihg puppy. But when he was in a 
grown-up mood he was a man all over. This 
side of him came out on the long walks, when’ 
he talked in his vivid, forceful way about men 
and books and affairs; or on the hard all-day 
rides down in the Canyon, when there was so 
much to see that we talked little; or in the eve¬ 
nings on the rim and in the camp below, when 
night spread through the Canyon and finally 
covered the glowing sky above. 

There is something very positive about the 
desert country. One likes it or dislikes it; but 
[xi] 







let’s go! let’s go! 


no one is ever indifferent to it. Yan loved it; 
and it was his oft-expressed hope that the fur¬ 
ther development of the Canyon would never 
fall into the hands of anyone who did not love 
it, too—that it would always be safeguarded 
from those who would jazz it and exploit it and 
Coney Islandize any comer of it in the name of 
improvement. That would be like slapping God 
on the wrist. 

Last summer I went back to the Canyon and 
everyone talked a good deal about Yan—that 
is, everyone except the Baron. At first he 
looked at me a little mistily, and I think he was, 
recalling the last time when Yan was there, 
too, slapping him on the back and jovially greet¬ 
ing him as a “miserable old man.” I wished 
that I could make him beam and wince again 
in the old way, before he began to shake hands 
decorously with his rather conventional guests, 
but that was “Yan’s stuff.” So I shook hands 
like any proper tourist and went out to the rim, 
where a very learned gentleman with a very 
correct New England ancestry was expounding 
the theory and geology of the Canyon to a 
group of interested hearers. I have never met 
anyone with a more absolutely faultless man¬ 
ner. He both explained and apologized for the 
Canyon’s crudities in one breath. I rather 
gathered that he would have found the geology 
of the Alps more to his liking, if certain events 
had not made them temporarily inaccessible to 
American tourists of refinement. I do not think 
[xii] 









let's go! let's go! 


that Van had very much geology, but I felt as 
I listened that he had known the Canyon in a 
way that the learned Easterner would never 
know it. Doubtless his unimpeachably correct 
ancestry went back through libraries and mon¬ 
asteries and temples to a cultured cave home, 
while Van's ancestors spent their lives prepar¬ 
ing for descendants who would be good Ameri¬ 
cans when the time came; and Van was one hun¬ 
dred per cent American. That may explain why, 
he hated poor sports, parlor Bolsheviki and 
quitters; and why mountains, canyons, deserts 
and men took precedence in his mind over books 
about them. One man sees strata where an¬ 
other man sees God. 

Turn the page and you will find Van in his 
book. 

Let's Go! Let's Go! 


[xiiif 











CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Extra Man and the Milkfed Lion .... 13 

The International Cup.54 

M an-Afraid-of-His-Wardrobe.92 

Water Stuff.133 

Buck’s Lady Friend.174 

Desert Stuff.213 

Author! Author!.255 

Snow Stuff .• • a.298 

This is the Life! ^ . 329 


















BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 




I 




THE EXTRA MAN AND THE MILKFED 
LION 


W HEN Tommy Dennis began to love the 
beautiful and talented Myrtle Man¬ 
ners be was an Arab trader squat¬ 
ting in tbe shade of a date-palm, and 
she was a Christian maiden—a captive in the 
harem of Sheik Abdallah, the Scourge of the 
Sahara. 

When first he saw her face at the barred 
window, lovely in spite of the fear and grief it 
depicted, Tommy was conscious of a sudden de¬ 
lightful shock that fluttered to the tips of his 
fingers and toes; and when she stretched out 
her arms and wept, every sob went straight to 
Tommy’s susceptible heart. 

He held his breath as he watched her make 
a perilous descent from the roof of the harem 
by means of a rope ladder furnished by a faith¬ 
less slave, the same wdio later paid for his 
treachery to his cruel master, the sheik, by be¬ 
ing hurled from that very roof upon the spears 
of the tribe. 

Tommy Dennis was among those present 
when the beautiful stranger fled from the 
[13] 








BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


sheik’s oasis on Sharkey, the trained camel; 
and he murmured a brief but fervent prayer 
that the ungainly brute might not stumble. 
After a fashion of his own the Scourge of the 
Sahara offered up the same supplication—but 
it was Sharkey’s lame foreleg he was thinking 
of, and not the neck of the Christian maiden. 
Camels are expensive beasts, requiring time and 
patience in training; and Abdallah, besides be¬ 
ing a sheik and a scourge, was also heavy actor 
and producing director for the Titan Company; 
and, as such, responsible for its animal stuff. 

Later, as a wild Bedouin, armed with a bell¬ 
muzzled weapon and mounted upon a milk-white 
steed that manifested true Arabic love for its 
master by biting him severely upon the knee¬ 
cap, Tommy scoured the plain in pursuit of the 
lumbering Sharkey, again securing fleeting 
glimpses of the lovely stranger as she clung 
desperately to the camel’s saddle. Sharkey’s 
footwork was very erratic, consisting of two 
speeds forward, one sidewise and an abrupt re¬ 
verse. 

After several spirited sprints over dunes and 
across dry river bottoms, all of which Sharkey 
managed to win by a neck under shrill protest, 
the Bedouins, led by Sheik Abdallah, engaged 
in mortal combat with French troops—and 
Tommy Dennis was shot dead at the first fire. 
He did not mind this at all, being used to it; but 
he was very much annoyed at his Arab steed 
for kicking him as he fell. Neither were his 
[14] 




THE EXTEA MAH' AND THE MILK FED LION 


feelings soothed to any great extent by alight* 
ing heavily npon the helled muzzle of his an¬ 
cient weapon. 

Tommy was resurrected in a short blue 
jacket, which puckered abominably under the 
arms, and motheaten red trousers several sizes 
too small for him—a private in the corporal’s 
guard and an eyewitness to the affecting re¬ 
union of the lovers inside the French lines, the 
sandy river bottom doing duty as the Desert of 
Sahara. 

He saw the beautiful Christian maiden fall 
fainting from Sharkey’s back into the arms 
of her sweetheart, a tall, handsome fellow in 
the uniform of a captain of the Foreign Legion 
—he who had just slain the wicked Abdallah 
in a thrilling encounter with cavalry sabers, it 
being well known that a sheik never fights with 
anything else if he can help it. 

Tommy was not pleased with the ardent man¬ 
ner in which the gallant officer clasped the limp 
and yielding form to his bosom and pressed the 
parted lips with a neatly waxed mustache and 
imperial. The late Abdallah was not pleased 
either, judging by his comment. 4 ‘That was 
rotten!” he shouted. “No good at all! Myr¬ 
tle, you forgot to register a recognition before 
you pulled the fall. Jack, you cloaked the best 
part of the action with your shoulder when you 
ran in. Do it again, and try to get some real 
feeling into it—if you know how.” 

[ 15 ] 






BUCK PARVTN AND THE MOVIES 


“Oooo-issch!” sneezed the long-suffering 
Sharkey, nipping the director upon the arm. 

“Ouch!” yelled Mr. Abdallah, whose other 
name was Jimmy Montague. “Get that fool 
brute back where he belongs! Now then, all 
set, Myrtle? Take up a few feet of waste on 
that film. . . . Ready—action—go! . . . What’s 
the matter with that infernal camel? Come on 
with him! . . . Look down at Jack, Myrtle! 
. . . Now fall! . . . Oh, hold her close to you, 
man! That’s something like it! . . . Well, it 
went better that time, but it’s still rotten in 
spots. Throw out your arms when you fall, 
Myrtle. Don’t flop down like a sack of meal. 
And sprinkle some water here—Sharkey kicks 
up an awful dust when he stops quick.” 

Seven times the beautiful maiden fell into 
the arms of her beloved before the Scourge 
of the Sahara announced himself as satisfied, 
and Sharkey was led away, bubbling and gur¬ 
gling with rage and indignation. Seven times 
Tommy Dennis stood stiffly in the corporal’s 
guard, blushing behind his makeup, trembling 
in every fiber of his being. 

This was the lady of his dreams; he had 
found her at last. What difference did it make 
to Tommy’s fluttering heart that she was the 
Queen of the Movies, at a salary of one hundred 
dollars a week, and he but a despised extra man 
at three dollars a day? Cupid, careless little 
rascal with his bow and arrow, might take the 
blame for that. Tommy had found her—that 
[ 16 ] 




THE EXTRA MAH AND THE MILKFED LION 


was the main thing—and having found her he 
was forced to endure seeing her kissed back to 
consciousness by a supercilious person who 
wore a handkerchief in his cuff and addressed 
all extra men as “Here, you!” Tommy had 
not liked the handsome leading man any too 
well to begin with. He loathed him now. 

It was a slight source of comfort to note the 
businesslike way in which the young woman 
freed herself from Jack La Rue’s embraces the 
instant the camera man’s hand ceased to move. 
Tommy also observed that at the finish of the 
scene she walked away toward the temporary 
dressing tent, without so much as a word or a 
glance behind her. 

“I’ll bet she doesn’t like him!” thought 
Tommy, with a swift fluttering sensation under 
the blue coat. Then later: “I don’t see how 
any nice girl could! ’ ’ 

Tommy Dennis was twenty—he stood six feet 
in his stockings; his nose was straight; his eyes 
were clear; and, better than all else, his heart 
was clean. He knew as soon as he saw Myrtle 
Manners at the barred window of Abdallah’s 
harem that he had never really loved before. He 
realized that his high-school affairs, which had 
seemed so serious at the time, were but the silly 
flirtations of childhood; and the brief but burn¬ 
ing passion for the lunch-counter waitress was 
a youthful indiscretion. By the same process 
of reasoning he was not more than seven min- 

[ 17 ] 






BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


utes in convincing himself that he would never 
love again. 

When one is twenty it is easy to believe that 
true love is the only real thing in the world, and 
fame and fortune but the tinsel stage settings - 
for the One Big Scene, in which the right man 
plays opposite the right woman forever, and 
there are no makeovers, no cut-ins and no 
fogged films. 

He wondered as he discarded the dusty uni¬ 
form of the Legion and washed the paint from 
his face whether she had noticed him at all. He 
decided that it was within the range of possi¬ 
bility. He recalled that she was standing be- - 
hind the camera when the Bedouins swept yell¬ 
ing upon the French outpost. She must haves 
seen the rider who plunged from his saddle at' 
the first volley; and on the whole he was rather 
glad that his horse had kicked him. It was the 
sort of thing to draw the spectator’s attention. 
He ceased to regret the bruise on his hip where 
he had fallen upon his gun. She might have seen: 
that he was painfully hurt as he limped away 
—might even have been sorry for him. A! 
bruised hip was a small price to pay for a pity¬ 
ing glance from those soft brown eyes. He pic¬ 
tured her as asking questions about him and 
receiving truthful replies: 

4 ‘Who is that good-looking young man over 
there—the one who made such a daring fall?” 

“That is Tom Dennis, quite an unusual sort 
of an extra man. He is a fearless chap; never; 

[ 18 ] 




THE EXTRA MAH AND THE MILKFED LION 


stops at anything when it comes to making a 
good picture. He’s going to be a great stunt 
actor some day—that boy.” 

Tommy was recalled from a dream of im¬ 
aginary conversation by some of the genuine 
article close at hand. Buck Parvin was speak¬ 
ing. Buck was a moving-picture cowpuncher, 
acting during every waking moment. His street 
costume consisted of a widebrimmed hat of 
gray felt, a blue flannel shirt, a red bandanna 
for a cravat, a leather vest thickly studded with 
shining disks of brass, lavender trousers tucked 
into highheeled boots; and on special occasions 
he wore angora chaps and enormous spurs, 
which tinkled musically as he walked. His hat¬ 
band was made of rattlesnake skin, and dis¬ 
tributed about his person he wore several 
pounds of Indian beadwork and Mexican silver 
jewelry. Buck Parvin was one character actor 
who never left his makeup in the dressing room 
at the end of the day’s work, having, as he said, 
but three complete changes of wardrobe—put 
on, take off and go without. 

“Well, kid,” said Buck, “what do you think 
of the new leading lady? Quite a doll, ain’t 
she ? Pretty soft for that big stiff, La Rue! I’d 
like to have his job for about a week. I bet ole 
Jimmy Montague wouldn’t have to bawl me out 
for not huggin’ her hard enough. I’d play that 
scene for nothing. Yes, sir! Myrtle is cer¬ 
tainly some dolly!” 

“Aw, put the diffuser on that kind of talk!” 

[ 19 ] 





BUCK PAR YIN AND THE MOVIES 


growled Tommy. “You’ve got an awful nerve 
calling her by her first name. ’ ’ 

“Oho!” chuckled Buck. “You kind of like 
her your own self, don’t you, kidf I reckon 
you’ll be round here to-morrow acting all over 
the place. Maybe they’ll have a makeover on 
some of them chases and you’ll get a chance to 
pull another phony fall. Take it from me, 
Tommy, throw away that slide-trombone of a 
gun next time, unless you want to bust yourself 
plumb in two. And lemme tell you something 
else: Whenever you’re on the ground, with 
horses coming behind you, lay still! They’ll all 
jump over you. You began to crawl and ole 
Pieface just missed you by an inch.” 

“Darn it!” said Tommy. “I wasn’t crawl¬ 
ing ; I had to get off that gun. ’ ’ 

“Now if you want to catch the lady’s eye,” 
said Buck mischievously, “do a real fall! I got 
mine—right in the eye of the camera too. I 
thumbed ole Pieface in the neck and he went 
straight up like he was goin’ over backward; 
an’ I slid off him as easy as rolling out of bed. 
Not a bruise on me. And, believe me, the lady 
seen me do it; she was lookin’ right at me!” 

“You make me tired!’’ said Tommy, grinning 
in spite of himself. ‘ ‘ I fell like a man that was 
shot.” 

“You limped like it too,” said Buck with a 
chuckle. “We both of us might have broke our 
necks and it wouldn’t have made any difference. 
You and me ain’t got a Chinaman’s chance for 
[ 20 ] 




THE EXTRA MAN" AND THE MILKFED LION 


a pleasant look from her! They won’t be no 
extry men in Myrtle’s picture a-tall. None 
whatever! If she’s going to fall for anybody 
round here it’ll be La Rue.” 

“I don’t believe it,” said Tommy stubbornly. 
* 1 Why, she hardly speaks to him. ’ ’ 

“Listen at our banty rooster crow!” mocked 
Buck. “Tommy, you’re a lovely little feller, 
and I like you; but there’s a whole lot you don’t 
know about women. Yes, when it comes to fe¬ 
males I should say you was consid’able igno¬ 
rant. Let your Uncle Buck steer you. He’s a 
pretty wise Injun on this skirt thing.” 

“Huh!” snorted Tommy. “What do you 
know about women?” 

“Everything,” said Buck calmly. “Every¬ 
thing what is. I ought to. Women have 
throwed me higher in the air than you’ve ever 
been away from home, Tommy. Yes, sir; they 
cert’n’y had their fun with ole Buck—but fie got 
a line on ’em, you bet! Take it from me, it’s 
the dough that counts with the dolls—the 
dinero; the iron men; the large, smilin’ yaller 
boys. We ain’t got no bankroll, Tommy, and 
we’re safe. The camera ain’t focused on us at 
all—see? We’re way over yonder on the other 
side of the hill, plumb out of the picture. As 
soon as this jane finds out that La Rue drags 
down one-fifty a week, she’s goin’ to go ropin’ 
for him.” 

“Pshaw!” said Tommy. “The trouble with 

[ 21 ] 







BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


yon, Buck, is that you haven't met the right kind 
of women." 

“I ain't, hey?" demanded Parvin, as he fas¬ 
tened his bandanna with the huge silver ring 
set with turquoise matrices. “Oh, no; I sup¬ 
pose not. There's the women what likes you 
and there's the women what don’t; and they're 
the only kinds what is. Take it from me, I’ve 
met a many of both varieties—an' they was all 
out for the dough." 


n 

Love at first sight is a beautiful theory; but 
in every-day life there is such a thing as taking 
a long critical second look. Tommy took sev¬ 
eral, and each time he saw Myrtle Manners in 
a new part he discovered added charms. An 
extra man may look at a moving-picture queen 
if he has the luck to be selected by the director 
for a day's work. 

Each morning Tommy reported faithfully at 
the Titan headquarters, and when Jimmy Mon¬ 
tague crooked his forefinger and said, “I want 
you, kid!" that day was ringed on Tommy's 
calendar with a circle of gold. When the di¬ 
rector shook his head and said, “Nothing do¬ 
ing !'' Tommy slouched away, with his lower lip 
drooping and his hands crammed deep in his 
pockets, a picture of blighted hope. 

As the Cattle Queen, in sombrero and short 

[ 22 ] 





THE EXTRA MAN AND THE MILKFED LION 


riding skirt, Miss Manners captivated Tommy 
by her dash and daring in the saddle, and even 
Buck Parvin admitted that she “sat up in the 
middle of a hawss” like a cattle queen born. 
As the brave but heartbroken hospital nurse in 
the Civil War picture, All for Dixie, she 
plumbed unsuspected depths of sentiment; but 
when she played the deserted wife and mother 
in The Cashier’s Disgrace, and wept over the 
borrowed baby, she touched Tommy in his ten- 
derest spot. He was all hers from that mo¬ 
ment. 

Then came the wonderful day when she spoke 
to him. The performers had gone out “on a 
location” to the outskirts of the city and had 
been delayed beyond the noon hour. Tommy 
volunteered to find the nearest restaurant and 
bring back food. 

“Two ham sandwiches and a pint of milk, 
please,” was what she said to him; but Tommy 
walked in a daze for the rest of the day. 

He read a dozen meanings into that innocent 
remark and was pleased with every one of them. 

An actor employed by the Titan Company 
and working under Director Jimmy Montague 
had no sinecure. Montague had a reputation 
as a producer of sensational film dramas. He 
spent his nights in thinking up new and thrill¬ 
ing stunts for his actors to perform, and in 
devising scenarios to fit the stunts. 

Jimmy’s people never knew, when they re* 

[ 23 ] 







BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


ported for work on a new picture, whether they 
would be required to leap off a cliff into forty 
feet of water, go up in a balloon or track a real 
lion to the camera’s eye. Montague’s leading 
man had to box like a Corbett, wrestle like a 
Muldoon, ride like a Cody, swim like a fish, 
climb crags like a goat, dress like a Brummel, 
make love like a Sothern, and face wild animals 
like a—Colonel. 

Jimmy’s specialty was animal stuff. After 
his tremendous success with The King of Beasts 
*—a three-reel production that appeared in 
nearly every country under the sun and yielded 
a dollar harvest which remains a record to this 
day—the Titan owners saw a great light and 
began to invest in wild animals. 

They had objected when Jimmy insisted on 
buying a mangy, toothless lion for use in a 
single production; the poor old brute turned out 
to be the most profitable investment the com¬ 
pany had ever made, paying some eight thou¬ 
sand per cent. With one lion as a nucleus the 
Titan people rapidly acquired quite a respect¬ 
able menagerie, and Jimmy Montague’s animal 
stuff became known from St. Petersburg to 
(Tasmania. 

There was Selim, the elephant—a star in The 
Rajah’s Revenge and The Heart of Hindustan. 
Selim was a Hamburg-trained pachyderm, with 
a fair working knowledge of the German lan¬ 
guage and a painstaking attention to detail that 
[ 24 ] 





THE EXTEA MAH AND THE MILKFED LION 


made him a remarkable moving-picture actor. 
No desert scene was complete without the cam¬ 
els—Sharkey, Old Blue, Betsy and Marne—un¬ 
willing but efficient performers. The lions—* 
King, Duke, Bertha and Babe—had thrilled 
audiences all over the world; and the monkeys, 
wolves, snakes, coyotes, elk, deer, hyenas, and 
the nearsighted comedy tapir, also contributed 
their bit to the entertainment of the masses. 

Every time Sam Packard, the purchasing 
agent, had a chance to buy a wild animal he 
snapped it up and looked confidently to Jimmy 
Montague to invent a scenario to fit the crea¬ 
ture. 

One morning Montague received a telegram 
from the head of the firm in New York. 

“ Jungle stuff worked to death/ ’ it read. 
* ‘Get new scenario quick. Use all animals.” 

“There’s gratitude for you,” growled Jimmy 
as he tossed the telegram to Jack La Rue, who 
happened to be present. 1 1 How the deuce can I 
ring in lions and elephants and camels without 
a jungle scenario?” 

“Blest if I know!” said La Rue, lighting a 
cigarette. “You never see ’em anywhere else 
except in a circus, and-” 

“Bully boy!” shouted Montague. “Great 
suggestion, Jack!” 

“What suggestion?” demanded the amazed 
leading man. 

‘ < Why, the circus! ’ 9 said Jimmy. “It’s never 

[ 25 ] 






BUCK PARVI 1ST AND THE MOVIES 


been done. We ’ll make a circus picture and it ’ll 
be a knockout!” 

“ You ’re a wizard, Jimmy!” said La Rue. 
“Give you a toothpick to start with and you’ll 
have a lumberyard in ten minutes. How do you 
do it?” 

Jimmy Montague pressed three buttons. The 
stenographer was first to appear. 

“Send a telegram to the house in New York 
and ask ’em if they’ve got any stock films of 
circus parades. Get that oft quick! That pa¬ 
rade stuff will do fine for cut-ins,” said Monta¬ 
gue. 

Ben Leslie, the property man, and Joe Bates, 
in charge of the wardrobe department, entered 
together. 

“Joe,” said the director, “Jack here wants 
some silk fleshings—full tights; white or pink 
will do. Manners ought to be a bareback rider, 
I suppose—no; hold on. Maybe we can’t get 
anybody to double for her in a real riding act. 
I’ve got it! Why not make her a lion tamer? 
The very thing! Joe, get Manners a Spanish 
outfit and a lion-tamer’s whip. I’ll need some 
ringmaster’s boots. That’s all I can think of 
now; but it’s enough to get busy on. I’ll give 
you a list later.” 

“Goin’ to do a circus picture?” asked Ben 
Leslie. Ben was a lean, saturnine individual, 
as remarkable a personage in his way as any 
member of the company. Had he been ordered 
to produce the Kohinoor immediately he would 
[ 26 ] 





THE EXTEA MAN AND THE MILKFED LION 


have nodded twice, shifted his fine-cut from one 
cheek to the other and gone out without a word. 
And he would have brought back the Kohinoor 
—or the next best thing. Nothing surprised 
him; nothing daunted him. 

“Yes,” said Jimmy Montague, “we’re going 
to do a circus picture. Get busy on it, quick! 
Ward Brothers’ Circus is wintering down at 
Santa Monica. You can borrow a lot of junk 
from them. You know Billy Ward, don’t you! ” 

‘ ‘ Sure! ’ ’ said Ben. “ Worked for him once. ’ ’ 

* ‘ Gee-whiz! ’ ’ said Montague. ‘ 6 Is there any¬ 
body in the world you haven’t worked for— 
once ! ’ ’ 

“Reckon not,” said Ben, and departed. 

“This will be some scenario!” remarked 
Jimmy to his leading man. 

In his brilliant mind the toothpick was al¬ 
ready expanding into a telegraph pole; the 
lumberyard would come later. 

“Yes, but I don’t get you,” said La Rue. 
“What am I supposed to be in this picture! 
An acrobat!” 

“Bareback rider,” said Jimmy succinctly. 
“In love with the lion tamer. So am I. I’m 
the ringmaster. We can work up a lot of jeal¬ 
ousy stuff. I crab your act. Hit your horse 
with the whip when you go to do a jump-up. 
You fake a fall—all that ‘Cur-rse you, Jack 
Dalton!’ business. I ain’t got it straightened 
out, yet, of course; but for the blowoff Myrtle’s 
lion-taming stunt goes wrong, I get cold feet, 
[ 27 ] 




BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


and you tear in and save the lady. Ain’t that 
great ?’ 1 

“Me?” said La Eue, laying one hand upon 
his breast. “Me—save the lady? Me—in the 
cage with a lion? Not on your life! Suppose 
something goes wrong and he takes a wallop 
at me ? ” 

“Forget it!” said the director. “We’ll use 
old Duke for the cage scenes. You know w T hat 
a gentle animal he is! Brought up on a bottle, 
Kelly tells me.” 

“So was I,” said La Rue; “but I’ll eat meat 
now. That milkfed business doesn’t signify 
anything, Jimmy.” 

“Oh, rats!” said Montague. “Duke’s got 
the disposition of a great big dog.” 

“No, he ain’t,” said the leading man ear¬ 
nestly. “He’s got the disposition of a great 
big cat—and the claws and the teeth, and all the 
rest of it. Because he hasn’t killed anybody 
yet is no sign that he won’t before he’s through. 
Nix on this tame-lion stuff—they’re all wild, I 
tell you! And Manners wouldn’t want to work 
with a lion either.” 

“She’s done animal pictures before,” said 
Jimmy. “That girl ain’t afraid of anything.” 

La Rue passed over the slur. 

*“There’s such a thing as being too brave for 
your own good,” he insisted. “I’m as game as 
anybody, Jimmy, but it wouldn’t get me any¬ 
thing to be clawed up by a milkfed lion. If 
Duke doesn’t look right to me you’ll have to 
[ 28 ] 





THE EXTRA MAN AND THE MILKFED LION 


double me in that cage scene. I won’t work. 
Pm an actor, not an animal trainer.” 

‘ 4 Oh, well, ’ ’ said Montague, 4 4 if it comes right 
down to cases we can let that Dennis kid double 
you and pull off the rescue; but there ain’t any 
need of it. I’ve been in the cage with Duke a 
dozen times myself. He wouldn’t harm a fly. 
You ought to know that I never ask you to take 
chances. I never got you hurt yet, did I ? ” 

“Oh, no; not at all,” said La Rue with sar¬ 
casm. 44 1 suppose I wasn’t hurt that time when 
I got pounded on the rocks by the surf up on 
the Malibu coast. There wasn’t a spot on me 
as big as your hand that wasn’t cut or bruised; 
but of course that didn’t hurt! I just thought 
it did—that’s all.” 

44 The trouble with you, Jack,” said Monta¬ 
gue, 4 4 is too darned much temperament. Beat 
it out of here! I’m going to rib up this sce¬ 
nario. ’ ’ 

4 4 You remember, now, ’ ’ warned La Rue. 4 4 If 
Duke doesn’t look right to me—nothing doing! 
You’ll have to double me in that scene.” 

44 Get out of here!” said Montague. 

Left alone with his toothpick he drew a sheet 
of paper to him and scrawled upon it. 

44 The Jaws of Death,” said he with a grin. 
“I guess that’s a perfectly miserable title!” 


[ 29 ] 





BUCK PARVIK AND THE MOVIES 


III 

At eleven o’clock Jimmy Montague pushed 
his chair hack from his desk and gazed upon a 
masterpiece completed. 

“If that ain’t doping out canned drama while 
you wait I don’t know what is,” he remarked 
with a satisfied sigh. “If the two big stunts in 
the lion’s cage stand up all right I’ve got an¬ 
other grand picture for the poor old boss. If 
they fizzle—good night! We ’ll try fifty-one and 
fifty-three first. If Duke won’t work with a 
woman I can turn the lion-taming stunt into 
something else and still have a circus picture. ’ ’ 

One very fine thing about the moving-picture 
business is that no shred of an idea is ever 
wasted. Scenarios and action plots are subject 
to change at an instant’s notice. A camera- 
caught accident often forms the basis of a new 
film drama. Jimmy Montague had once written 
a scenario round a leading man’s broken leg. 
The picture of the fall from the roof was too 
good to waste. 

The Jaws of Death, as articulated on paper 
by J. Montague, called for two reels of film, 
seventeen separate backgrounds or locations— 
as they are always called when the photographs 
must be made outside of the studio—and fifty- 
five scenes. The two big stunts in the lion’s 
cage were numbered fifty-one and fifty-three—• 
[ 30 ] 





THE EXTRA MAH AHD THE MILK FED LIOH 


almost the closing scenes of the picture. These 
would he photographed first for economic rea¬ 
sons. 

In Jimmy Montague’s early days with the 
Titan Company, when the moving-picture busi¬ 
ness was in its swaddling clothes and all the 
men connected with the infant enterprise were 
learning something daily from the best and 
the bitterest teacher in the world, Jimmy 
worked forty men and women for two weeks, 
consumed miles of film leading up to his one 
big stunt scene; and he found when he got 
to it that it was a physical impossibility. The 
Titan people paid the bills, but the telegrams 
from New York were hot enough to melt the 
glass insulators in their flight. Jimmy man¬ 
aged to hold his job, but it was a close call; 
and after that he decided to make sure of his 
stunts first. If they succeeded, well and good. 
If they failed, the loss in time, money and raw 
film was trifling; and the scenario was deftly 
twisted about to meet the limitations of man 
or beast. 

This time the limitations were those of Duke, 
the performing lion; and the circus drama as 
originally planned would stand or fall upon 
that brute’s behavior. Scenes fifty-one and 
fifty-three, marked simply Interior Cage, were 
the crucial ones; so Jimmy set about his newest 
sensational production tail-first as it were. 

In the darkened theater devoted to the Movie 
Muse the pictures flit upon the screen, incident 
£ 31 ] 




BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


fitting smoothly into incident to tell a connected 
story; but in the making a photo-play is the 
wildest crazy-quilt imaginable—a headless, tail¬ 
less, cubist affair without form or coherence. 

Scenes are photographed with an eye to back¬ 
ground or location and no regard for sequence. 
The complete plan exists only in the magnificent 
mind of the producing director. Picking up 
the plot of a moving picture by following the 
actors at their work would be as easy a task as 
unraveling Monte Cristo by reading chapters at 
random. This is one reason why seasoned mov¬ 
ing-picture actors seldom ask questions. The 
director tells them what to do and they do it. 

Thus Myrtle Manners did not ask questions 
when she was given a Spanish costume, though 
she wondered what she was to do with the short 
rawhide whip. 

Jack La Rue did not need to ask questions. 
He scowled as he inserted his manly form into 
pink silk fleshings. Jack did not like animals 
of any sort, and animals did not like him. 

Tommy Dennis, picked out of the squad of 
extra men at the usual morning inspection, 
asked but one question as he tugged at another 
suit of pink silk fleshings. 

“Say, Buck,” said he, “is—is Miss Manners 
in this picture?” 

“I dunno,” said Buck, gloomily surveying a 
clown costume. “All they told me was that I 
got to ride that ornery trick mule. Jimmy 
Montague is fixm’ to get my head kicked off, 
[ 32 ] 




THE EXTRA MAN AND THE MILKFED LION 


I reckon. Look at the clothes they wished on 
me! What are yon made up for, Tommy? The 
flyin’ trapeze or just a parachute jump? 
Where do these fool pants hook on to the 
shirt ?” 

Tommy Dennis, however, had lapsed into 
dreamy silence. Miss Manners, he reflected, 
had never seen him in tights. He looked down 
at his symmetrical limbs with a grave air of 
satisfaction. A costume of this sort—silk— 
ought to make a difference. 

Charlie Jennings, a retired stock actor of 
long experience and no small skill with grease 
paints, entered the extra men’s dressing room, 
carrying a makeup box and a black, curly wig. 

“You’re elected to be made handsome, 
Tommy,” said he. “Montague says for me to 
make you up to double La Rue.” 

To double the leading man! Tommy’s heart 
skipped a beat and then hurried wildly as if 
to catch up. 

‘ ‘ S-a-a-y! ’ ’ exclaimed Buck, suddenly jealous. 
‘‘ What’s coming off here ? If this is goin ’ to be 
ridin’ stunts, why can’t I double it? Tommy 
can have the mule. I can pull stuff on a hawss 
that La Rue—the big dub!—never knowed was 
in the book! I’m going to make a holler about 
this! I’m a rider; I ain’t no rough-and-tumble 
comedian. There’s favoritism in this joint!” 

“Oh, I guess you don’t want this job so bad 
as you think you do,” said Jennings as he dark- 
[ 33 ] 





BUCK PARVIK AND THE MOVIES 


ened Tommy's eyebrows. “I’ve got an idea 
you'd pass it up if they offered it to you." 

44 What's the stunt?" asked Tommy, trying 
his best to appear blase and unconcerned. 

4 4 Lion stuff!'' said the old actor. 4 4 Hold that 
eye still! How do you expect I'm going to 
make you up if you wiggle all over the place ?' 9 

44 Lions!" ejaculated Buck. 44 Excuse me a 
minute till I put my cue back in the rack. 
Tommy, you win a job and welcome. I'll take a 
chance with the mule. Ole Buck here is awful 
careless, but he ain't mislaid no lions lately. 
Huh-uh!'' 

44 Are you afraid of lions, kid?" asked Jen¬ 
nings. 4 4 Would you go in the cage with Duke ?'' 

44 Which one is Duke?" asked Tommy. 

44 The big one. Think you'd be afraid?" 

44 Did La Rue pass it up?" Tommy had no in¬ 
tention of committing himself until he knew 
more of the details. 

44 Well," said Jennings with tact, 44 I don't 
know as Jack's really leary; I heard him tellin' 
Miss Manners just now that she might be a lion 
tamer, but he thanked God he was an actor." 

4 4 Is that little gal go in' into a lion's cage?" 
demanded Buck incredulously. 

44 Sure!" said Jennings. 44 She's game as 
they make 'em.'' 

44 I never was much afraid of lions," said 
Tommy. 4 4 Even when I was just a little shaver 
I used to look 'em right between the eyes and 
make 'em turn away." 

[ 34 ] 





THE EXTRA MAH AND THE MILKFED LION 


4 ‘ Ho! ’’ sniffed Buck. i ‘ But you was outside 
the cage when you done that hypnotic stuff. 
It makes a heap of difference to a lion whether 
you’re outside lookin’ in or inside with him 
tryin 9 to get out. Don’t overlook that, son!” 

“Well, you needn’t worry about Duke,” said 
Jennings. “He’s kind and gentle, and works 
fine in a picture. I wouldn’t be afraid to lead 
him right down the middle of the street by his 
whiskers. ’ ’ 

Buck cackled derisively. 

“My! My! That actor man sure don’t need 
no press agent! ” he said. ‘ ‘ Tommy, you know 
me! I’m your friend. I like you; but you don’t 
resemble no Daniel-in-the-den to me, and don’t 
you let nobody kid you into pullin’ no lion’s 
whiskers. It ain’t bein’ done this season at all. 
You could put a million dollars in a cage with 
a lion—an ole, sickly lion—a lion that had run 
round nights and dissipated, and never took 
no kind of care of himself, and wasn’t enjoyin’ 
good health—you could stack that dough right 
up to the roof, and do you think I’d go in there 
after it? Not in four thousand years! No, sir! 
A lion has got something on you any time he 
starts—an’ he don’t say nothin’ to you before 
he starts neither. Just b-zing!—and first thing 
you know you ain’t got no face left. I claim 
I’m gamer ’n any man ought to be and have 
good sense. I’ve had the cold chills sometimes 
thinkin’ about the darn fool chances I’ve took; 
but little ole Buck Parvin in a cage with a lion? 
[ 35 ] 







BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


Huh-uh! My folks raised me to know better!” 

“What are yon trying to do—scare some¬ 
body V ’ snapped Jennings. 6 ‘ Don’t pay any at¬ 
tention to him, kid. This is a tame lion.” 

“Tame—hell!” snorted Buck. “They ain’t 
no tame lions! ’’ 


IV 

Duke woke np when Tim Kelly and the crew 
of the animal farm began to trundle his cage 
toward the canvas studio. He blinked lazily, 
shook a fly off his nose, yawned twice, and pre¬ 
pared to take a languid interest in his surround¬ 
ings. It was as if he said: 

“Well, boys, what new foolishness is this?” 

Nothing that men might do could surprise 
Duke very much. Beginning life under the can¬ 
vas of a circus tent, he had seen human beings 
since the day his eyes opened. Even before he 
saw them he had smelled them. He had studied 
them covertly for years, without arriving at 
a definite conclusion regarding them; there was 
about him something of the impartial air of one 
who suspends judgment until all of the evidence 
has been presented. He looked upon the entire 
human race with a mixture of grave dignity, 
quiet patience and noble condescension. 

Certainly these two-legged animals were 
queer creatures—the moving-picture ones- 
queerest of all—but they were good to him; and 
[ 36 ] 




THE EXTRA MAN AND THE MILKFED LION 


Duke recognized a certain obligation on bis 
part. He did not know why they wished him 
to do foolish and undignified things, but it was 
plain to him that these things pleased his friend 
Tim Kelly, the boss animal man; so whenever 
he was called upon, Duke stalked gravely 
through his part like the obliging old gentleman 
he was. 

Duke liked the animal farm. He liked the 
long, lazy California days. There were no jolt¬ 
ing street parades; no stuffy circus tent with 
its endless stream of gaping faces; no irritating 
rattle and thunder of night freights. If Duke 
had planned a Heaven for tired old lions it 
would have been like the animal farm, with its 
kindly attendants, large, comfortable cages, 
good food and long stretches of drowsy inac¬ 
tivity. 

He had but one disquieting memory left him 
from his circus days—the memory of a swarthy 
man who made him leap through a fiery hoop, 
stand on his hind legs, and roll over. Before 
every performance the swarthy man came into 
the cage and beat Duke unmercifully with a raw- 
hide whip. 

This memory returned vividly whenever Duke 
saw a whip in a trainer’s hand. At such times 
he would sit up and strike at the rawhide, 
growling ferociously and showing his teeth, as 
he had always done when the swarthy man 
whipped him. He continued to do this long 
after he learned that, though Tim Kelly might 
[ 37 ] 










BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


sometimes show him a whip, he never struck 
him with it. 

41 Poor old felly!” Tim would say in his soft, 
crooning voice. “ ’Tis not me ye’re scoldin’ at, 
darlin ’; it’s the whip. Ye’ve been abused, Juke 
—bad luck to the brute that done it to ye! ” 

Then Tim would toss the whip out of the 
cage and rub the short hair on Duke’s nose; and 
Duke would stretch himself luxuriously, making 
gentle dabs at Tim with his great cushioned 
paws by way of explaining to him that habit 
bound lions too, and that his growl did not really 
mean anything of a personal nature. Upon this 
habit Jimmy Montague had built his scenario. 
If Duke would growl at a whip in the hands of a 
woman the picture was as good as made. 

Once in the studio Duke looked about him 
with a patronizing stare, sniffed once or twice, 
and then, dropping his nose between his paws, 
composed himself for a nap. He had been fed 
heavily early in the day and he was very sleepy. 

“Ah!” said Jimmy Montague, very elegant 
in a ring-master’s shining tile, cutaway coat, 
white moleskin breeches, and top boots. 
6 i That’s my notion of the ideal moving-picture 
actor! He rolls in, on time to the dot; rubbers 
round once to see that everything is all right, 
and then goes to sleep till he’s wanted. He 
never forgets his makeup and doesn’t try to do 
any of the director’s thinking for him.” 

Jimmy crossed toward La Rue, who was sit- 
[ 38 ] 




THE EXTRA MAH AND THE MILKFED LION 


ting on a bench, his pink-silk legs crossed and 
the eternal cigarette between his lips. 

“You see how quiet he is,” urged Montague. 
“He’s as easy to get along with as a Newfound¬ 
land puppy.” 

La Rue scowled and shook his head. 

“The only lion I’ll ever go in the cage with 
will be a dead one, ’ ’ said he. “ He’s asleep now, 
Jimmy; but I’ve seen these tame wild animals 
wake up at the wrong time—and so have you. ’ ’ 

Miss Manners, more beautiful than ever in 
the Spanish costume, a single yellow rose in 
her dark hair, looked at Duke anxiously. 
Tommy Dennis, modestly smothering his silken 
grandeur in a shabby raincoat, took up a pro¬ 
tecting position beside her. After a time he 
dared to speak, feeling that his elevation to 
the part of understudy to the leading man per¬ 
mitted him a certain amount of latitude. 

“Aw, he’s all right!” said Tom m y, nodding 
toward the sleeping beast. ‘ 6 He never hurt any¬ 
body in his life, Miss Manners. He’s what they 
call a milkfed lion.” 

The girl indulged him with a smile. 

“He looks peaceful enough now,” said she. 
“I’m always a little nervous with animals, 
though. Are you?” 

“I never have been yet,” said Tommy, skirt¬ 
ing the thin edge between truth and fiction. 

“Did you ever work with this lion before?” 

“Not with this one,” said Tommy, allowing 

[ 39 ] 







BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


the lady to draw her own conclusions from the 
slight shading of the adjective. 

“You’re doubling La Rue, aren’t you?” 
asked the girl, glancing at the wig. “You don’t 
look much like him. ’ ’ 

“I thank you,” said Tommy, and they 
laughed together. Immediately he felt a subtle 
bond of sympathy between them and risked a 
bold stroke. “You don’t care very much for 
him yourself, do you?” asked Tommy, marvel¬ 
ing at his own audacity. 

“I’m not answering questions this morning,” 
smiled Miss Manners. 

“You don’t have to,” said Tommy bluntly. 
“I know!” 

“Indeed?” The slow, rising inflection 
warned Tommy that it was time to change the 
subject. 

“Say, what about this stunt we’re going to 
do?” he asked. “All they told me was that it 
was lion stuff. ” 

He said it with the airy nonchalance of one 
to whom lions were nothing—the merest trifle 
—an every-day affair. 

“I don’t know what the action is myself yet,” 
said the girl. “You’re not in the first scene, 
I believe; but in the next one you’re to carry 
me out of the cage.” 

“Great!” ejaculated Tommy, who at that 
moment would not have exchanged places with 
any living man, lion or no lion. ‘ 4 That ought to 
make a swell picture!” 

[ 40 ] 




THE EXTRA MAN AND THE MILKFED LION 


“Yes,” said Miss Manners; “but don’t you 
forget that it’s my face that you want to keep 
toward the camera. I don’t want anybody to 
think that I had to be doubled in this scene!” 

“Leave it to me!” said Tommy. “I don’t 
care whether they see me or not, so long as 
I can help you make a good picture of it. And 
let me tell you something: When you go in 
there, look at that lion right between the eyes! 
Whatever you do, don’t turn your head away 
for a second! Just keep your nerve with you; 
and remember that a lion can’t do a thing so 
long as you look him square in the eye.” 

“I’ve heard that before,” said the girl. 

“Sure you have, and it’s true! I’ve pulled 
that eye stuff on lions and things ever since I 
was a kid, and it’s worked every time. ’ ’ 


V 

While Tommy was gilding the dull edges of 
fact with the glittering alloy of fancy Jimmy 
Montague had not been idle. His first task was 
to superintend the placing of the cage—a long, 
narrow receptacle, constructed with an eye to 
the focal limitations of a camera lens. The 
inclosure was swung about so that the narrow 
front end of the cage, in which was the door, 
rested opposite the steep tier of bleacher seats 
upon which the audience was already seated. 

A single bar at the back end of the cage was 
[ 41 ] 








BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


then removed to permit the entrance of the 
camera. The lines of focus sweeping fanwise 
from the lens embraced the entire width of the 
receptacle at the front end, with the door as 
the exact center of the stage, and broadened out 
to embrace the audience as a background. Be¬ 
tween the bleacher seats and the cage was an 
open space in which a certain portion of the 
action must transpire. 

The completed picture, when flashed upon the 
screen, would present to the beholder an unob¬ 
structed foreground of the interior of the cage, 
beyond which the actors appeared against a 
solid wall of faces, the latter conveying the im¬ 
pression of a crowded circus tent. 

“Now then!” said Jimmy Montague briskly, 
“all you people who are not in this first scene 
get back over the lines and keep still! Dennis, 
that means you. Beat it!’ 9 

‘ ‘ Remember about keeping your eye on him!’ ’ 
whispered Tommy as he faded away, and the 
girl nodded. 

Tommy took up a position in the far corner 
of the studio, where for the first time he became 
conscious of the shabby raincoat. He removed 
it, deeply regretting that he had not done so 
sooner. 

Into the space between the cage and the 
bleachers Montague summoned Miss Manners, 
La Rue and Tim Kelly, conversing with them in 
low, earnest tones. Tommy could not hear what 
the director was saying and, to tell the truth, 
[ 42 ] 





THE EXTRA MAN AND THE MILKFED LION 


he was not interested in the action of scene fifty- 
one. He was already playing the hero in scene 
fifty-three, inventing a dozen methods of rescu¬ 
ing the beautiful lion tamer at risk of life and 
limb. He wondered if Jimmy Montague would 
order him to kiss her, and the one drop of bit¬ 
terness in his cup was the thought that La Rue 
would probably do that. 

“Now here’s the action of the first scene ,’ 9 
Jimmy was saying. “Myrtle, you’re to go into 
the cage. This old lion is whip-shy. Pull the 
rawhide on him and he’ll begin to act. He’ll 
sit up on his haunches and growl, and make 
passes with his paws; but lie’s only bluffing.” 

“ ’Tis what he always does when ye show him 
the whip,” said Tim. “An’ it ain’t meanness 
wid him, miss—it’s fear! He’s been abused in 
his time an’ he can’t forget it. He’ll git up on 
his hunkers an’ show his teeth an’ make an aw¬ 
ful powwow; but, bless ye, he don’t mean any¬ 
thing by it. So long as he can see the whip he’ll 
keep on actin’—remember that.” 

“Good!” said Montague. “Now, Myrtle, as 
soon as the lion begins to work you register 
fear. Keep the whip in your hand where he can 
see it, and back away from him toward the 
side. Put one arm over your face—like this. 
Better crouch down against the bars and stay 
there till the end of the scene. The camera 
is cutting in the whole front end of the cage, 
so you won’t have to worry about getting out 
of focus. Jack, when she kneels down by the 
£ 43 ] 









BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


bars you come forward to the door of the cage 
and establish yourself. Then register great 
fear that the lion’s turned bad. I want you to 
get that right square into the camera’s eye. 
That’s all; we cut there with an announcement: 
Dolores Loses Her Nerve—Love to the Res¬ 
cue. ’ ’ 

“Is that the end of the scene?” asked Miss 
Manners. 

“Yes. Then you stand by, and Kelly will 
make the lion lay down and play dead—and the 
double will carry you out. Afterward I can 
make a closeup of La Rue grabbing a pistol 
out of my pocket, shooting through the bars 
and running. That ’ll come after the announce¬ 
ment—to establish that the lion was shot by La 
Rue. That’s all, I guess—except that we won’t 
rehearse this because the lion won’t work more 
than once a day. We’ll just go ahead and make 
the picture.” 

“You’re sure about this lion, are you?” 
asked Miss Manners. 

“Absolutely! Tim and the other animal man 
will be right outside the door and they could 
get you out in a flash. Oh, by the way, Tim, 
it would be a pretty good touch if you and 
George got a couple of those iron prods you 
had for the leopard and held ’em up as if you 
expected to use ’em. We want to make Duke 
look as ferocious as possible.” 

Tim Kelly grinned. 

[ 44 ] 





THE EXTEA MAH AND THE MILKFED LION 


“Ye’re slandherin’ the poor old dog,” said 
he; “but it’ll look grand in a picture!” 

Montague next turned his attention to the 
camera man. A producing director is respon¬ 
sible for everything, from the newest extra 
man to the high-salaried and capable expert 
who handles the camera. 

“Oh, Charlie!” 

“Yep!” answered Dupree, the little photog¬ 
rapher. 

“Got your focus nice and clear, so there 
won’t be any fuzzy backgrounds in this? 
Camera all threaded up? And be sure you’ve 
got a full box there, because I’m going to make 
these two scenes together, all in one piece.” 

“Right-oh!” answered Dupree. 

Montague turned to the bleachers: 

“You extra people, sit still and don’t act! 
And I’ll fine anybody a day’s pay that makes 
a noise. I want absolute quiet in this scene—• 
remember! ’ ’ 

The director then became the heavy actor, 
twitched at the collar of his coat, straightened 
his tie and moved into position. 

“All right, Tim! Wake up the star!” 

VI 

Tommy Dennis watched the animal man as 
he rattled the bars of the cage. Duke raised his 
head inquiringly. 

‘ 1 Up! Git up, Juke! ’ ’ commanded Kelly, and 

[ 45 ] 







BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


the big beast heaved himself erect with a sigh. 
He fixed his sleepy yellow eyes upon Tim’s 
face with an expression of patient resignation 
plainer than words. 

“I haven’t the slightest idea what this is 
all about,” said the yellow eyes, “but I am 
in the hands of my friends. Let’s get it over 
with as soon as possible.” 

11 Gee! He’sa whopper when he stands up! ” 
thought Tommy Dennis. 

“Get him a little farther back from the door, 
Tim,” whispered Montague. “That’s better. 

. . . Hold up the iron prods, boys! . . . Now, 
then, Myrtle! Ready—action—go!” 

Duke had often heard the three words that 
move the movie world. In his mind they were 
associated with unusual happenings and sud¬ 
den developments. He pricked up his ears, 
for in the dead silence he could hear the tick¬ 
ing purr of the film as it sped past the lens into 
the takeup box; and turning slightly he caught 
the glint of the camera’s eye at the far end 
of the cage. 

Miss Manners stepped bravely forward, Tim 
Kelly threw open the door and Duke became 
aware that he had a visitor. Beyond a slight 
lifting of his head, Duke remained motionless, 
regarding this charming stranger with polite 
and respectful interest. To tell the truth, Duke 
was rather partial to women. He remembered 
that in his circus days they had never prodded 
him with canes or umbrellas, and he placed 
[ 46 ] 





THE EXTRA MAN AND THE MILKFED LION 


that to their credit. Over in his corner Tommy 
Dennis drew a deep breath. It was a milkfed 
lion, after all! 

“The whip! Show him the whip!” 

Obedient to the whisper, Miss Manners drew 
the rawhide from a fold of her skirt and shook 
it nnder Duke’s nose. Instantly the big brute 
rose upon his haunches, snarling and striking 
with his paws and filling the place with his 
angry protest. 

“Ar-r-r-ugh! R-r-r-ugh!” scolded Duke, 
thinking of the swarthy man with the bad eye. 

“Ye’re doin’ fine, Juke! Bully f’r you!” 
whispered Tim. “He’s only bluffin’, miss.” 

Tommy Dennis took a step forward, his 
knuckles whitening through the tan as his fin¬ 
gers closed convulsively. 

“Don’t lose your nerve!” he breathed. 
“Look him right in the eye!” 

Even as the words were on his lips the trans¬ 
formation came. The girl wavered; the whip 
lowered uncertainly, and she turned slowly 
from the lion to the camera. Tommy read ter¬ 
ror in the staring eyes—in the blind groping 
of the free hand—in the whole cringing atti¬ 
tude. He sensed panic in the sudden shifting 
of Montague and La Rue. 

“She’s afraid!” he groaned. “Why don’t 
they do something!” 

There was worse to come. Miss Manners 
crept toward the side of the cage, where she 
knelt cowering against the bars. Duke ceased 
[ 47 ] 







BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


to gro.wl, but he could still see the whip; and, 
like the dependable actor he was, he continued 
to register emotion. He squatted on the floor 
to await developments, and his tail whisked 
in swift, nervous circles. 

“Swell!” whispered Jimmy Montague. 
“That crouch makes him look as if he was go¬ 
ing to do a jump. Establish yourself, Jack!” 

Then it happened. 

Charlie Dupree, counting his film foot by 
foot and congratulating himself upon an artis¬ 
tic success, caught a glimpse of a thunderbolt 
in pink-silk fleshings that shot into the picture 
from the void beyond the focal lines. Before 
Dupree could cry a warning, Jack La Rue, es¬ 
tablishing himself at the cage door, was hurled 
violently to the ground, and high over the wild 
howls and imprecations of director and camera 
man rose a clarion call: 

“It's all right! I’m coming!” 

Being an animal man by instinct and train¬ 
ing, Tim Kelly was geared up to meet emer¬ 
gencies rather more than halfway. As La Rue 
was doubled up by his double, Tim launched 
himself at Tommy’s legs; but silk is slippery 
stuff, and not for nothing had Tommy been 
the star halfback of a football team. The fly¬ 
ing tackle crumpled in a limp heap; Tommy 
snatched the iron bar from the petrified George, 
and the next instant he was inside the cage, 
brandishing-the weapon. 

Old Duke, still crouching, looked up just in 
[ 48 ] 






THE EXTRA MAN AND THE MILKFED LION 


time to receive a terrific blow full upon the tip 
of bis sensitive nose. 

“You would, would you!” bowled Tommy. 

The king of beasts covered his afflicted bead 
with bis paws, tucked bis tail between bis legs 
and bumped bis back to the storm. His pite¬ 
ous clamor took on a shrill note of hysteria. 

“Run, Miss Manners! I’ve got him going!” 

The command fell on deaf ears. Myrtle bad 
given one terrified glance over her shoulder 
and fainted, thereby blocking entrance to the 
cage for several seconds. 

To the everlasting credit of Charlie Dupree 
let it be recorded here that his good right band 
did not miss a single revolution of the crank. 

‘ ‘ Hey! Keep him in the corner!’ ’ yelled Du¬ 
pree. “Swing round more! You’ll cloak the 
action! ’ ’ 

Tommy Dennis was beyond orders, however, 
and Duke was past remaining in any corner. 
There was only one idea left in the lion’s bat¬ 
tered head, and that was to tear down the bars 
and escape from this maniac who pursued him 
so relentlessly and hit him so hard. The cage 
rocked to Duke’s frantic assaults, and at each 
thump of the iron bar his agonized cries grew 
louder. His wildly roving eye fell upon the 
gap that had been made to admit the end of the 
camera—and Duke leaped for it, plunging his 
nose into the aperture below the ticking black 
box. Charlie Dupree grew suddenly pale, but 
his right hand did not falter. 

[ 49 ] 









BUCK PARVIIT AND THE MOVIES 


“Back!” lie roared. “You’re out of the pic¬ 
ture! Back!” 

Then Tommy Dennis, reeling and dizzy, ex¬ 
hausted by violent exercise and excess of emo¬ 
tion, added a finishing touch to a remarkable 
performance. He aimed his valedictory at the 
top of Duke’s head, between the ears, putting 
into the blow the last remaining ounce of his 
strength. The heavy bar descended squarely 
upon the top of the camera, smashing the deli¬ 
cate mechanism into a thousand pieces; and 
Charlie Dupree, festooned with ruined film but 
faithful to the last, continued to turn the piece 
of crank that remained in his hand. 

The next thing Tommy knew the iron bar 
was whisked from his grasp and he was plucked 
backward, going down underneath an avalanche 
of striking, swearing humanity. Five strong 
men sat upon various portions of his person, 
and the one astride his shoulders seized him 
by the ears and banged his head upon the floor 
of the cage. This was Director J. Montague. 

Duke was whimpering in the far corner, his 
head in Tim Kelly’s lap; and the animal man 
was weeping and cursing by turns. 

“Kill him f’r me!” he raved. “The muis 
dherin’ scut has fair slaughtered the best actor 
we got!” 

Tommy Dennis was sullenly collecting his few 
personal effects when Buck Parvin burst into 
the dressing-room, out of breath and panting. 
[ 50 ] 






THE EXTRA MAN AND THE MILKFED LION 


‘ ‘ What ’s this I hear ? What ’s this ? Tommy, 
they tell me yon saved the lady, all right; but 
you saved her so strong that the whole gang 
had to tear into the cage to save the lion! What 
kind of a guy are you anyway? Just my fool 
luck to be down at the hawss corrals and miss 
a show like that! Did they can you for it ?’ ’ 

Tommy nodded. Then, after a silence: 

“What do they say about it?” 

“Well,” said Buck judiciously, “different 
people says different things. Now there ’s Tim 
Kelly. I seen him before I come away from 
the farm. Tim says Duke won’t never get his 
tail out from between his legs if he lives to be 
older’n Methuselah, an’ that, as a movin’-pic¬ 
ture lion, he’s through—loss o’ confidence, and 
all that stuff. I don’t know ’bout the confi¬ 
dence part of it; but, from what I seen, Duke 
sure is shy a lot of scalp, an’ he’s got a couple 
of front teeth that might’s well be on a watch- 
charm as where they are.” 

“Darn it!” said Tommy. “I think they 
might have told me what the action was going 
to be!” 

“Ye-ep, they might, at that,” said Buck; 
“but how could they figure you was goin’ to 
go for that lion the way you did? Then there’s 
Dupree, the photographer guy. I seen him 
cryin’ over what’s left of his tick-tick. He says 
he could forgive you for doublin’ La Rue at the 
wrong time, and he ain’t got no kick on what 
you done to the lion; but when you caved in 
[ 51 ] 







BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


that box it looks like you lost a wellwisher. He 
’lows as how he hadn’t missed a move you made 
an’ was gettin’ a wonderful picture of you a- 
fannin’ that ole snoozer on the bean, when— 
blooie! And there he was, kneedeep in busted 
glass and loose film. You’d better try not to 
meet that guy when you go out—he’s hostile! 
Then there’s Montague. Jimmy says you made 
a bum of the grandest scenario he ever wrote. ’ * 

“Did anybody else say anything?” 

“Well, yes,” said Buck. “Myrtle—she was 
kind of mentionin’ you in spots—a little.” 

“What did she say?” 

“I heard her tellin’ La Rue that you’d spoiled 
the best piece of actin’ she’d ever done, an’ 
then beat up the lion so horrible they couldn’t 
never get no makeover on it. What made her 
sorest was that you’d been ribbin’ her up to 
keep her nerve an’ then you went an’ lost 
yours!” 

“Me?” demanded Tommy. “Lost my nerve 
—after what I did to that lion! ’ ’ 

41 That’s what the lady said, ’ ’ remarked Buck, 
rolling a brown-paper cigarette. ‘ 6 The way she 
figures it out, you got scared and went kind of 
daffy! ” 

There was a silence of two full minutes while 
Tommy crammed his belongings into his suit¬ 
case. 

i ‘ That does settle it!” he said bitterly. ‘ ‘ And 
I thought I was risking my life—for that!” 

Buck Parvin peered at the boy through the 
[ 52 ] 






THE EXTRA MAH AND THE MILKFED LION 


smoke as it rose from his nostrils. When he 
spoke there was something almost like sympa¬ 
thetic understanding in his tone. 

“Son,” he said, “Uncle Buck—he knows how 
you feel. He tried to do a lady a favor once 
by beatin , up her husband when he had a 
beatin , coming. Spanish lady she was—down 
in the Pecos country. Ever seen that scar 
across my ribs? . . . That’s the thanks I got! 
. . . Women an’ lions—lions an’ women—look 
out for ’em, Tommy! Both of ’em scratch!” 


[ 53 ]' 










THE INTERNATIONAL CUP 


D AVID SELIGMAN, the vice-president 
of the Titan Company, with offices on 
Fifth Avenue, studios in Chicago and 
Los Angeles, and films at work the 
wide world over, was more of a sport than a 
sportsman. 

His knowledge of athletics was confined to 
baseball, as witnessed from a box at the Polo 
Grounds on a w T arm Saturday afternoon. What 
he knew about the national game would not 
have filled a volume; but what he knew about 
all other sports and pastimes might have been 
written in a large round hand upon the back 
of a postage stamp. Still his reading of the 
daily papers included a casual survey of the 
sporting pages; for said he: 

“You never know when an idea for a pic¬ 
ture is going to hit you or where it is going to 
come from.” 

In proof of this statement he laid down his 
paper one morning and fired a question at his 
secretary, Marco Lazarus. 

“This polo thing—what is it?” 

[ 54 ] 







THE INTERNATIONAL CUP 


“Polo?” said Marco. “Thales a game, Mr. 
Seligman.” 

“Sure it’s a game! I didn’t think it was a 
business. What I want to know is this: How 
do they play it?” 

“With horses,” said Marco, “and long-han¬ 
dled hammers, and a white ball. Once I saw 
it out at Van Cortlandt Park; and, believe me, 
there was fine action to it.” 

“Horses!” said Seligman. “That’s right in 
our line. Send a wire to Montague that he 
must make a polo picture at once. With all 
these English lords and dukes coming here next 
month to play for a cup, and the papers full of 
it already, everybody is going to be interested 
in polo. It’s new stuff too. A good picture 
ought to make a mint of money. Tell Montague 
to rush it! ” 

“Cert’nly,” said Lazarus; “but what if Mon¬ 
tague can’t get any big league polo players in 
Los Angeles? You know how hard it is to get 
anything in them small Western towns, Mr. 
Seligman. Maybe they don’t know what polo 
is out there.” 

“A man who lives in Yonkers should know 
about California!” grunted Dave with wither¬ 
ing sarcasm. “Take a trip sometime and go 
West until you wet your feet in the Pacific 
Ocean, and everywhere you find skyscrapers 
and apartment houses, and electric lights and 
turkey-trotting. And even if Jimmy Monta¬ 
gue was sitting on a deserted island in the mid- 
[ 55 ] 









BUCK PABVIN AND THE MOVIES 


die of Salt Lake lie would get us what we want. 
If the fellow falls down on the real stuff he 
sends us a fake so much better than the origi¬ 
nal that there is no comparison at all. "Wire 
him at once!” 

Jimmy Montague, producing director for the 
Titan Company and maker of miracles to order, 
bit hard upon his stubby cigar as he read that 
telegram. 

“Here’s a hot one!” said he to Sam Packard, 
the purchasing agent. ‘ ‘ Seligman wants a polo 
picture and he wants it quick! Now who ever 
told him there was such a game as that in the 
world? ‘To take advantage of interest in in¬ 
ternational cup series,’ is what he says. Con¬ 
found Dave! I wish he’d let me alone. Here 
I’m giving him a picture a week regular as 
clockwork, and I’ve got my plans made a month 
ahead. Next week I wanted to do some water 
stuff over at Catalina, and here comes this fool 
telegram—and I have to drop everything. A 
polo picture! Have we got a polo expert round 
here ?’ ’ 

“Not that I know of,” said Packard. “I 
tried to stick through one polo match, but it 
outgamed me. When they began to serve after¬ 
noon tea I beat it. Imagine stopping a fellow 
in the middle of a hot mixup to ask him whether 
he’d have lemon or cream in his oolong!” 

“That’s the very thing that is going to make 
this a tough stunt to get away with,” said Mon¬ 
tague. “We’ve got to have the afternoon-tea 
[ 56 ] 




THE INTERNATIONAL CUP' 

atmosphere to this picture or it won't get by 
with the people who know. Polo is a rich man's 
game—an Englishman's game—and I don't see 
how we can get any of the real people to fall 
for us! Our cowpunchers can ride all right 
enough, but they'd look awful bad in a tea¬ 
drinking scene, and they haven't got the right 
kind of horses either. I know just the sort of 
men I want, but how the deuce am I going to 
get 'em? Gee! I wish Dave Seligman would go 
to Europe again and the boats would quit run¬ 
ning for about a year! Every time he horns in 
with one of his royal commands there's trouble. 
He put the curse on the jungle stuff, and what 
happened? Old Duke, the lion, got such a flail¬ 
ing he won't ever be any good in a picture again 
—and we lost a new camera. I wonder if Ben 
Leslie knows anything about polo? I'll ask 
him." 

Ben Leslie was the property man—a person 
of few words and many amazing experiences, 
each one of which had taught him something 
worth remembering. He appeared, thought¬ 
fully chewing fine-cut tobacco—an expression 
of settled melancholy upon his thin features. 

“Say, Ben, do you know anything about 
polo?" asked Montague. 

i 1 That horseback croquet ?'' Leslie shook his 
head. “I should hope not! Ask Buck Parvin. 
He claims he invented it." 

“I knew I'd get some sort of a tip from 
Ben," said Montague. “He knows everything 
[ 57 ] 







buck: pabvin and the movies 


In the world—that fellow! Where’s Buck?” 

| Buck was discovered in the extra men’s 
dressing-room at work on a new hatband, an 
Intensely patriotic affair, heavy with red, white 
and blue beads. Parvin was expecting to work 
in a Western picture; consequently he was at¬ 
tired in full regalia—angora chaps, spurs, 
leather vest, and a remarkable collection of 
cheap silver ornaments. A quirt gay with bead- 
work hung from his wrist as he jingled into the 
director’s office. 

4 ‘Welcome, little one!” said Montague. 
11 They tell me you know something about polo. ’ 7 

“Whoever told you that sure spoke a mouth¬ 
ful for once,” said Buck modestly. “I reckon 
I ought to know something about polo! Why, 
say, man—me and old Butch DeVries wrote the 
game!” 

1 ‘ Quit kidding! ’ ’ said Montague. ‘ ‘ I want to 
know. ’ 7 

“And I’m telling you,” said Buck. “Polo? 
Didn’t I have a job down on the DeVries Ranch, 
at Saspamco, trainin’ polo ponies for the New 
iYork market? And didn’t our bunch go over 
to the fort at San Antone and whale the ever¬ 
lasting socks off the best cavalry team in the 
country? No—I reckon I just fell asleep and 
dreamed that! You ask them cavalry people 
if Buck Parvin knows anything about polo. 
They’ll tell you it’s my middle name. Why, 
look here, Jim—I can do stuff with them wood¬ 
en balls that ain’t possible nohow! I can--— 
[ 58 ] 





THE INTERNATIONAL CUP 


‘‘ Yes, yes!’ ’ said Montague. 1 ‘ I ’ll take your 
word for it. We want to make a polo picture in 
a hurry. Can you get the stufff” 

“All but the players,” said Buck. “Them 
Pasadena stables are chock-full of brokendown 
polo ponies; they rent ’em to tourists for sad¬ 
dle animals. They look all right, but they can’t 
play polo no more—knees busted up mostly. 
Then we’ve got to have some of them flat sad¬ 
dles—English postage stamps I call ’em. I 
know where I can land a few. Gimme five big 
iron dollars to oil up a friend of mine what 
works at the Polo Club and he’ll come through 
with pith helmets, mallets and balls for fur¬ 
ther orders. Gimme ten and I’ll make him bor¬ 
row some boots for us.” 

“Nothing could be fairer than that,” said 
Montague. “We can fake up something that’ll 
look like a game.” 

‘ 4 Don’t kid yourself,’’ said Buck. “You can’t 
fake polo strong enough to fool anybody that 
ever saw the real game. Believe me, the worst¬ 
looking thing in the world is a guy tryin’ to 
fourflush on one of them flat English saddles. 
(You can’t get by with a fake, Jim; you got to 
have a few players. Now, what you ought to 
do is to hire some of them skinny Englishmen. 
They not only play the game to beat the band 
but, doggone ’em, they look it! There’s some¬ 
thing about a lean, blond boy with a loose chin 
and buck teeth that sort of reminds me of polo 
159 ] 







BUCK PAEYIK AND THE MOVIES 


—just like a dago makes me think of a hand- 
organ. ’ ’ 

‘‘Holy cat!” ejaculated Montague. “If I 
could only pick up a typical Englishman or two 
I could put this picture across and call it 1 The 
International Cup.’ I wonder if we could get 
a few of ’em to stand for a movie stunt? Do 
you know any, Buck?” 

“Not no more, I don’t. We had one down to 
the ranch at Saspamco. I sailed in to lick him 
once for saying that George Washington wasn’t 
so much and that the best he ought to had was 
a draw. If those old time Englishmen that 
come over here to rough-house us for puttin’ 
salt water in their tea could fight like the bird 
I tangled up with, my hat is off to George— 
that’s all! He must have been there forty ways 
from the middle of the deck! Yes, sir; ole 
Cuthbert sure taught me to appreciate his¬ 
tory. ’ ’ 

Montague paused for reflection. 

“Any polo games coming off round here 
soon?” he asked. 

“Not till next month,” said Buck. “The 
Kanakas are going to play here then.” 

‘ 4 Can’t wait that long, ’ ’ said Jimmy. ‘ ‘ I was 
thinking we could get permission to put a 
camera on the field and use the pictures of a 
real match for cut-ins. We’ll have to do the 
best we can with cowpunchers. If I could only 
land an Englishman or two! One typical Lon¬ 
don Johnny would help a lot.” 

[ 60 ] 




THE INTEKNATIONAL. CUP 


“Why not advertiser’ suggested Packard. 
“You might pick up a remittance man. Those 
younger sons are always broke. ’ ’ 

“And proud as Lucifer!” said Montague. 
“Still, we might try it, though. You never can 
tell. I’ll stick an ad in the morning papers, 
giving the street address. If you’d say ‘mov¬ 
ing pictures’ to an Englishman he’d drop 
dead!” 

‘ ‘ Lovely billiards! ’ ’ said Buck. 16 1 hope you 
get enough for a mess. And lemme give you 
a million dollars’ worth of advice for nothing: 
If you should happen to gaff a sure-enough 
Englishman don’t go braggin’ to him about 
what a great fighter George Washington was. 
That’s how I come to get showed up that time. 
Just let George stand pat on the record book. 
Why, say, that crazy Cuthbert galoot made me 
stand up in the bunkhouse with nothing on me 
but a shirt and sing God Save the King! to the 
tune of My Country, ’Tis of Thee. And if that 
ain’t rubbing it in I don’t know what is. Then 
he made me save the whole royal family—one 
at a time—with a sawed-off shotgun. You listen 
to your Uncle Buck! Some of them Englishmen 
are so plumb ignorant and bigoted that they 
don’t give a damn whether the Revolutionary 
War is over yet or not.” 



£ 61 ] 







BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


II 

Mr. Kenneth Clifford Devenham sat on the 
edge of the bed in his lilac-silk pajamas and 
made a mental inventory of his possessions, be¬ 
ginning with the flat pocketbook on the table 
and ending with the fat wardrobe trunk in the 
corner. Somewhere between the two he arrived 
at the conclusion that he was facing a grave 
crisis in his temporal affairs. 

“Silly ass—to spend all that money at the 
Grand Canon!” said Kenneth Clifford to him¬ 
self. “Now I presume I shall have to go to 
work—or something of the sort. It won’t be 
for long, of course; and I dare say I shall find 
it interesting—as an experience.” 

Having settled the matter in his own mind, 
the young man rose, treated himself to a re¬ 
freshing cold shower and dressed with scrupu¬ 
lous care. He was fortunate in possessing 
youth, optimism, a sunny disposition and a good 
appetite. These assets were untouched by tem¬ 
porary financial disaster, and he was not par¬ 
ticularly dismayed by the thought that, for a 
time, he must depend upon his own resources. 
This was California, was it not—the land of op¬ 
portunity? 

True, the money that should have lasted for 
six months had vanished in four, but Kenneth 
Clifford had enjoyed every day of the vanished 
[ 62 ] 





THE INTERNATIONAL CUP 


period. He had met many charming people in 
America and had done his best to repay hos¬ 
pitality in kind. The money had taken wings, 
but it had fluttered gloriously before flying 
away. 

It was also true that he might have sent an 
urgent cablegram to Battersby, his solicitor; 
but there were several reasons why it was best 
that Battersby should know nothing of his pre¬ 
dicament. The memory of Kenneth Clifford’s 
last interview with that excellent old gentleman 
was still green. He recalled it now in painful 
detail. 

“Remember, Mr. Devenham,” Battersby had 
said, “it was your father’s express wish that 
his estate should be so administered that the 
disbursing periods occur semi-annually. His 
orders were definite—I might almost say posi¬ 
tive—that under no circumstances should they 
be shortened. Under no circumstances! I be¬ 
lieve it was his idea that these extended periods 
would teach you to live within your means. ’ ’ 

Battersby had looked searchingly at Ken¬ 
neth Clifford; and the young man, flushing 
slightly, had replied to the effect that the 
“guv’nor” had always entertained an entirely 
erroneous opinion as to his business capacity. 

“You shall see,” he had remarked with a 
somewhat lordly air, “that these—er—precau¬ 
tions are quite unnecessary. Quite! I have 
no intention of making an ass of myself and go¬ 
ing beyond my means. I shall get on very com- 
[ 63 ] 







BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


fortably under the present arrangement, I as¬ 
sure you.” 

“Comfortably is not the word!” Battersby 
bad squeaked. “Luxuriously, my dear sir—- 
luxuriously! The amount you are to receive in 
a lump sum twice a year is more than ample for 
one without incumbrances of any sort. I sin¬ 
cerely trust you may find it so.” 

“You may have no fear.” Kenneth Clifford 
had said this in his most positive manner, strik¬ 
ing the floor smartly with his stick to show how 
much he meant it. 

“How long do you expect to remain in Amer¬ 
ica?” 

‘ 1 That I cannot say, ’ ’ the young man had an¬ 
swered. “Possibly I may never return to Eng¬ 
land at all; in fact, I think it is quite likely. I 
may marry in the States and grow up with the 
country—and—and all that sort of thing, you 
know.” 

‘ ‘ That would be a pity! ’ ’ Battersby had said. 
“A very great pity!” 

Kenneth Clifford had thought so himself and, 
what was more, had devoutly hoped that Alice 
Burwell might think so, too, seeing that the 
hardness of that young woman’s heart was 
driving him to lands afar. 

The statement to his solicitor as to matri¬ 
monial probabilities did not quite coincide with 
one he had made the night before, when he had 
asked a certain young woman a certain question. 
[ 64 ] 






THE INTERNATIONAL CUP 


for the ninth time in six months, and had re¬ 
ceived a certain answer. 

“I shall go away,” Kenneth Clifford had 
murmured in broken tones—for at least he had 
done his best to break them —“I shall go away 
and not annoy you any more. India or South 
Africa or the States—somewhere. You will 
never see me again, Alice. Never!” Then, as 
the lady had not urged him to reconsider when 
the cue had been so plainly given, he had added 
rather hastily: “ Unless, of course, you change 
your mind. One word, dear, and I’ll catch the 
first boat. . . . No; I shall not write. Too much 
like—er—prolonging the agony. Old Battersby 
will know my address; I shall keep in touch with 
him wherever I am. Would you mind if I kissed 
you just once—for good-by! I beg your par¬ 
don! I suppose I should have known better. 
I thought—but it really doesn’t matter what I 
thought, does it? Quite right! Don’t forget, 
Alice, that Battersby will know where I am, and 
one word from you—eh? I assure you, on my 
honor, that I am quite serious! This time it is 
really good-by.” 

Kenneth Clifford thought of all these things 
as he got into his clothes. In a way it was a bit 
unfortunate, he reflected, that he had gone so 
strong with Battersby as to future intentions; 
but having committed himself there remained 
nothing but to “play the game,” as he would 
have expressed it. 

If pride had been unable to stay his hand 

[ 65 ] 






BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


from the cablegram blank there was another 
and more powerful incentive to take his medi¬ 
cine in becoming silence. Battersby was also 
Miss Burwell’s solicitor, and Kenneth Clifford 
had reason to believe that the old gentleman 
regarded Alice with a fatherly eye. What if 
he should so far sink the professional in the 
paternal as to mention the fact that young 
Devenham—silly goat!—had squandered two 
thousand pounds in four months! Kenneth 
Clifford shuddered at the thought. He hap¬ 
pened to be well acquainted with Miss Bur- 
well J s views on wasters. 

Battersby, then, besides being the disbursing 
agent, was the last line of communication left 
open between the young man and the object of 
what he was sadly pleased to term a hopeless 
but undying affection. Battersby might even 
become a friend at court—and Kenneth Clif¬ 
ford knew that he stood in sore need of one. 

Certainly there was nothing about the young 
man’s manner of ordering breakfast that sug¬ 
gested mental strain. 

4 ‘ Melon, pot of coffee, rolls, rasher of bacon, 
three soft-boiled eggs. Oh, I say, waiter! If 
you were out of a situation what would you 
do?” 

The waiter was Irish and therefore equal to 
emergencies. 

“I should go down to union headquarters, 
sir.” 

[66] 





THE INTERNATIONAL CUP 


‘ ‘ Ah!’ ’ Then, after a pause: 4 ‘ Quite so. But 
if there were no union headquarters ?’ 9 

“In that case, sir,” said the intelligent 
waiter, “I think I should buy a morning paper 
and look in the Male Help Wanted columns, 
sir.” 

“Yes, of course—of course!” said Kenneth 
Clifford. “I should never have thought of 
that.” 

An hour later, newspaper in hand, he ap¬ 
proached the desk clerk, his manner a mixture 
of surprise and mild indignation. 

“I say, look here!” said Kenneth Clifford. 
“Do you really mean to tell me that you have 
professional polo teams in this country? Upon 
my word, I never heard of such a thing! ’ 9 

“Neither did I,” said the clerk; “but it’s get¬ 
ting so now in this country that everybody’s 
out for the dough. Professional polo? I don’t 
believe it’s played round here.” 

“Bead this!” said Kenneth Clifford accus¬ 
ingly. He spread the paper on the desk and 
indicated a paragraph. 

WANTED—Polo players; Englishmen 1 pre-i 
ferred. Good money to right parties. Apply ' 

to J. Montague, 1525 B-Avenue, City. 9 

a. m. to 4 p. m. 

6 ‘ Well, what do you know about that! ’ ’ ejacu¬ 
lated the clerk. 

“My dear fellow,” expostulated Kenneth 
[67] 






BUCK PARVIIT AND THE MOVIES 


Clifford, ‘ ‘ I know nothing about it, else I should 
not have troubled you. Professional polo! It’s 
the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of in 
my life! Most extraordinary! ’ 9 

“Why don’t you look into it?” suggested the 
clerk, who was used to providing entertainment 
for world-worn tourists. 

i ‘ I shall—this very day. Call me a taxi ! 9 9 


III 

‘ 1 Say, Jim! There’s a fellow in the front of¬ 
fice who looks like seven million dollars! He 
came out in one of them multiplication tables 
on wheels, and it’s waiting for him. He wants 
to see you, but he won’t say what for.” 

‘‘ Send him in! ” said Montague, interrupted 
in the middle of his polo scenario. 

Jimmy Montague had a wonderfully quick 
eye for detail, as every successful director must 
have. Even as his thumb-nail grated inquiring¬ 
ly over the engraved surface of the card, his 
trained eye appraised the visitor from the top 
of his sleek, blond head to the soles of his heavy 
shoes. ‘ ‘ What a type! ” he thought. c i Oh, what 
a comedy type!” But aloud he said: 

“What can I do for you, Mr.—Devenham?” 

“You can give me work, I hope,” was the to¬ 
tally unexpected response. Kenneth Clifford, 
with British bluntness, had gone straight to 
the heart of the matter. 

[ 68 ] 




THE INTERNATIONAL CUP 


Even then Jimmy Montague failed to com¬ 
prehend the situation. He was temporarily 
dazed by an atmosphere of money, taste—and 
something else he would have characterized as 
“heaps of class.’’ Extra men seldom call in 
taxicabs. 

“Work?” said Jimmy. “Are—are you an 
actor?” 

“Eh? I beg pardon. An actor, did you say ?” 

“Yes. Can you act? Have you had any ex¬ 
perience?” 

Kenneth Clifford blinked his pale blue eyes 
and stared vacantly. 

‘ 1 Oh, I say!” he remonstrated. “I’m dashed 
if I see what acting has to do with it—I am, 
really! I’ve done a bit in the way of amateur 
theatricals and all that sort of thing—every 
fellow has, you know—but, hang it all, what has 
acting to do with polo?” 

Jimmy Montague took his turn at staring. 

“Are you a polo player?” he demanded. 

“I am,” said Kenneth Clifford. “That is 
what I came to see you about.” 

Jimmy Montague leaned back in his chair and 
roared. Kenneth Clifford rose rather stiffly. 

“You will pardon me,” he said. “If this is 
an American joke-” 

“Hold on!” said Montague hastily. “Don’t 
go away mad! Sit down! I want to talk with 
you.” Kenneth Clifford seated himself on the 
extreme edge of a chair and regarded Monta¬ 
gue steadily. “How, then,” said the director, 
[ 69 ] 










BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


4 4 do you know wliat sort of a place this is?” 

The young man shook his head. Politeness 
kept him from expressing the opinion that it 
was a private madhouse. 

44 It’s a moving-picture studio,” said Mon¬ 
tague. 

44 Oh, I say!” cried Kenneth Clifford. 44 Is 
it—really? Where they make the films—eh? 
I’ve never seen one before!” 

He looked about him with wide-eyed interest. 

4 4 Yes, this is where we make the films. And 
if it’s work you’re after, you’re engaged now.” 

44 Look here,” said Kenneth Clifford, 44 how 
do you know I’d suit?” 

4 4 You’ll suit, all right!” said Montague with 
a grin. 44 And if you’ll only he natural in front 
of a camera you can’t help being a tremendous 
hit. ’ ’ 

Kenneth Clifford bent his cane across his 
knee and rocked back and forth, laughing until 
the tears came into his eyes. 

44 This is ripping!” he gasped at last. 44 I 
came here to play polo and now I’m an actor! 
Haw! Haw! Haw! You do things so fast 
in this country!” 

44 We have to in this business,” said Jimmy 
Montague. 4 4 You’ll have a chance to play polo 
too. We’re going to make a polo picture, and 
you’re exactly the type I’ve been looking for. 
I’d have picked you out of a thousand men. 
How are you fixed for riding clothes?” 

[ 70 ] 




THE INTERNATIONAL CUP 


66 Fixed?” said Kenneth Clifford. “I have 
them—if that is what yon mean.” 

* 4 Bully!’ ’ said Montague. ‘‘ Got a frock coat 
and a silk hat?” 

“Of—course!” said Kenneth Clifford, feel¬ 
ing very much as if he had been asked whether 
he owned a change of underwear. 

“Move all your junk out to the Marchmont 
Hotel, in Pasadena,” said Jim m y. “Most of 
the pictures will have to be made out there—• 
the polo scenes and the high-society stuff, you 
know. We pay all expenses. You’ll get five 
dollars a day clear. How does that strike you? ” 

“That will do very nicely.” 

“It’s rather more than we pay extra men, as 
a rule,” said the director; “but I’m going to 
write you a part in this picture. It ’ll give you 
a chance to show what you can do.” 

“That’s very kind, I’m sure,” said the young 
man—and he took his whirling brain out into 
the open air. 

“What a lark!” he chuckled. “A moving- 
picture actor! This is an experience! I won¬ 
der what I shall look like in the films?” 

This last point was one upon which Jimmy 
Montague had no doubts. 

“Oh, that face!” said the director as he tore 
a half-finished scenario into bits. “A typical 
bloody, bloomin’ Britisher, don’t ye know! You 
couldn’t mistake him for anything else. Write 
him a part? He’s going to be the whole bally 
show! ’ * 


[ 71 ] 







BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


Whereupon Mr. James Montague set about 
writing a moving-picture drama round his one 
Heaven-sent Englishman—just as he would 
have written a scenario round a giraffe or a 
hippopotamus, or any other queer creature at 
the animal farm. Canned drama to order was 
Jimmy Montague’s specialty, and he knew his 
business. 


IV 

!All went well with “The International 

Cup.” 

The manager of the Marchmont Hotel, scent¬ 
ing advertising from afar and esteeming pub¬ 
licity no less than his right eye, was more than 
willing that porches and lawns should serve as 
locations for the high-society stuff; and many of 
the guests entered into the affair so thoroughly 
that Charlie Dupree complained aloud. 

“Never saw so many goats in my life!” said 
the camera man. “Soon as they see me turn 
the crank they want to run and get in the pic¬ 
ture, and wave their hands and holler: ‘Oh, 
you!’ They must think this is a joke and film 
doesn’t cost anything.” 

Buck’s friend at the Polo Club inclined his 
ear to reason and disgorged pith helmets, mal¬ 
lets with warped handles, chipped balls and sec¬ 
ond-hand boots. 

The club members themselves—when it was 

172] 





THE INTEKNATIONAL. CUP 


pointed out to them that a moving picture 
would bring Southern California polo promi¬ 
nently before the eyes of the world—saw no 
reason why they should refuse the use of the 
clubhouse and playing field to such a suave gen¬ 
tleman as Mr. Montague. 

Buck Parvin collected a noble aggregation of 
dickey-legged ponies, which looked all the polo 
they were no longer able to play; and, to Jimmy 
Montague’s great joy, Buck also unearthed 
three English grooms. When incased in riding 
breeches, tan boots, silk shirts and pith helmets 
they came near resembling the real thing—* 
and, with Kenneth Clifford, they were to repre¬ 
sent Old England before the camera; while 
Buck Parvin and three cowpuncher friends 
were to bear the Stars and Stripes gallantly 
through countless feet of film. 

“It won’t be so awfully rotten,” said Mon¬ 
tague to Buck judicially as he watched Kenneth 
Clifford Devenham twisting a wiry little red 
pony in and out between the goal posts, back of 
which Charlie Dupree was at work focusing his 
camera. 

‘ ‘ Huh! ’ ’ said Buck, whose bowlegs were pain¬ 
fully apparent in English riding breeches. “It 
won’t be rotten at all. If the ponies don’t play 
out on us we ought to get some darned good 
action stuff. Take Lord Algy over there—he 
sure is some polo player! The flunkies ain’t so 
worse when you take a quick flash at ’em, and 
my boys have been workin’ out on them postage 
[ 73 ] 






BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


stamps for three days. They’ll get by all right, 
but a flat English saddle gets a cowpuncher’s 
goat at first. That Lord Algy—say, he’s the 
pure quill in Englishmen, ain’t he? Yes, sir 
*—the clear catnip! You won’t make any mis¬ 
take if you shove that mug of his right up 
against the camera—they won’t take him for 
no Swede—I tell you those, Jim! Now you 
know what I meant when I said some English¬ 
men remind me of polo. He’s one.” 

4 ‘Yes; he’s the type,” said Montague. “Did 
you see him make that backhanded swipe a 
while ago ? Caught the ball right in the air! ’ ’ 

“Oh, he savvies what side of a hawss to get 
on at!” said Buck. “And he sure does recog¬ 
nize a polo pony when he sees one. Them 
grooms—they was all for pickin’ out the good- 
lookers ; but Algy, he nosed through the bunch, 
tried out a few, and then froze to that homely 
little red runt—the best polo pony in the string. 
That’s Brandy—used to belong to a rich guy 
down at Riverside. If we knew as much polo 
as that little red trick, we could write a book 
iabout it. ... You know, Jim, I kind of like 
that Englishman! He’s so darned wide open 
and simple, and talks right off his chest. I 
was askin’ him a few questions just to feel him 
out. He says he started in to buy the Grand 
Canon on the instalment plan, but there was 
too much of it and his dough petered. That’s 
why he’s working. Didn’t make no bones about 
it at all and takes the whole thing as a joke. 
[74] 




THE INTERNATIONAL. CUP 


Yes, sir; he’s all right! I reckon he knows the 
war is over. How was he in that high-society 
stuff over at the hotel this morning? Did he 
deliver ?’ 9 

“Right square in the camera’s eye,” said 
Montague enthusiastically. “Fell into it as if 
he hadn’t done anything else all his life. When 
it comes to wearing clothes as if they’d been 
made for him, and doing the little social stunts, 
he makes the rest of us look like a lot of hack- 
drivers dressed up.” 

“Shucks!” said Parvin. “There’s a lot in 
the way you’re raised. Now me—I never even 
seen one of them claw-hammer coats till I was 
risin’ nineteen; and the first one I ever had 
on my back was when you made me work in 
that poker scene. I was scairt stiff for fear the 
darn thing was goin’ to come undone some- 
wheres. It sort of made me feel that I had to 
begin to act and be genteel, and stick my little 
finger out when I took a drink; but Lord Algy 
—say, it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s been 
dressed up so often that he don’t mind it at 
all! It’s come to be second nature with him. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ He’s a bully find! ’ ’ said Montague. “ If he 
sticks long enough I’ll have him in a lot of pic¬ 
tures. We could do some Western stuff, with 
him as the tenderfoot—have him ride a bucker, 
and all that sort of thing. . . . Buck, how do 
you score in this fool game?” 

“You lam the ball through between the 

[75] 






BUCK PARVIH AND THE MOVIES 


posts!” said Parvin. 44 Who’s got to win, Jim 
—or does the dope call for a winner?” 

44 English team wins,” said Montague. 

4 4 I like your crust, ’’ grunted Buck. 4 4 1 reckon 
you don’t know what an elegant trimming them 
hands across the sea got the last time they 
was over here. What’s the idea? Algy wins 
and cops out the swell heiress?” 

44 Something like that,” said the director- 
author. 4 4 He wins Myrtle . 9 ’ 

44 Why don’t you let me win Myrtle once in a 
while ? ’ ’ demanded Buck. 4 4 Fix up a love scene 
that’ll let me hold that leadin’ lady’s hand for 
about a thousand feet and you won’t have to 
gimme no dough for it! . . . All right! Pay off 
on Lord Algy! Put them English flags up on 
the goal posts, and me and the rest of the 
American citizens will crowd in and wallop a 
few hot ones for Algy to stop. That shows him 
defending the English goal—see? Then we’ll 
stick up the American flags, and Algy and the 
noble grooms can shoot a few goals through me. 
That shows ’em winning. I reckon I better 
whang a few in there myself to make it look 
like a close game, and don’t forget to tell them 
boneheaded extry people in the automobiles to 
wave the right flags and yell every time the ball 
goes between the posts. How about me faking 
a fall?” 

44 Go to it!” said Montague. 44 Only don’t 
forget that Algy is the star. You always were 
a frightful film-cannibal, Buck.” 

[ 76 ] 





THE INTERNATIONAL CUP 


“Oh, I don’t know!” said Parvin. “I ain’t 
got much on yon when it conies to bein’ a foot¬ 
age-hog. I’ve seen you eat up sixty or seventy 
feet just to die in—many’s the time.” 

“But I play the heavies, and the villain al¬ 
ways dies hard,” grinned Montague. 

“Yes; and you write the pieces too,” said 
Buck. “I notice these scenario writer-actors 
don’t take none the worst of it.” 

“All right, Charlie!” said the director, mov¬ 
ing over behind the camera. “I want both the 
goal posts in.” 

“You’ve got ’em,” said the camera man. 

“Buck, get on a pony and stand there be¬ 
tween the posts!” ordered Montague. “We 
want to get the horse-height. And don’t cut 
any higher over his head than you have to, 
Charlie. I don’t want too much sky in this pic¬ 
ture.” 

Thanks to Buck’s vociferous coaching and 
Kenneth Clifford’s clean, sweeping strokes, the 
polo scenes passed off successfully. 

Buck, who would not be cheated out of his 
specialty, improvised a thrilling bit in which 
he raced straight at the camera, Kenneth Clif¬ 
ford in pursuit, with orders to turn the ball 
at the last instant if possible. Just as Deven- 
ham thundered alongside, Buck pitched clear 
out of the saddle; and Kenneth Clifford capped 
the climax with a slashing backhand stroke, 
executed so close to the camera that Charlie 
Dupree heard the swish of the mallet as it de- 
[ 77 ] 









BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


scended. Even the blase Jimmy Montague 
yelled at this hair-raising bit of action; but, as 
soon as the camera man ceased to turn, Ken- 
neth Clifford was out of his saddle and bending 
over the prostrate Buck. 

“Charlie, get some of that quick!” cried 
Montague. “It ain’t in the scene, but it’s great 
stuff!’ 9 

“My dear fellow!” said Kenneth Clifford. 
“That was a nasty tumble! I hope you’re not 
hurt ? ’ ’ 

Up to this time Buck, with true dramatic in¬ 
stinct, had not moved a muscle. As he felt 
Kenneth Clifford’s arm about him he sat up 
and spat out a mouthful of dirt. 

“Hurt!” he said. “It’s worse than that. 
Here I go and pull one of the swellest falls of 
my life and you swing in across me and cloak 
the action. We got to do it over again, Algy; 
and, for the love of Mike, gimme a chance to 
register that fall on the film! Let the camera 
see me do it! ” 

At last everyone was satisfied, including 
Buck, who got his fall in; and Montague as¬ 
sembled the entire company and the extra peo¬ 
ple for the final scene on the polo field. 

Miss Myrtle Manners, the leading woman, 
very lovely in a trim-fitting afternoon gown 
and a picture hat, left the high-wheeled trap 
in which she had been sitting and approached 
the sidelines. 

“Now, then,” said Montague, “here’s the 

[ 78 ] 




THE INTERNATIONAL CUP 


blowoff. This is supposed to take place at the 
end of the game. Devenham, what’s the cus¬ 
tomary thing to do just at the finish !” 

Kenneth Clifford blinked. 

‘ ‘ Why , 9 7 said he , 1 ‘ everyone has a brandy and 
soda.” 

‘ ‘ Good idea ! 9 7 said Montague. 1 ‘ I don 7 t know 
whether the censors will stand for that, but 
we’ll try to put it over on ’em. But what do 
they do on the field!” 

“Oh!” said Kenneth Clifford. “The losers 
cheer the winners—swing their mallets, and all 
that sort of thing. Then the winners cheer and 
everybody shakes hands.” 

“That’s what I want!” said Montague. 
“Now here’s the action: Myrtle, you stand here 
on the sidelines. The players will bunch up on 
the field and cheer. When they do that, Myrtle, 
you register joy and pride. Then, Devenham, 
you break away from the bunch and ride over 
here as fast as you can. See this little piece 
of paper on the ground! That’s where you dis¬ 
mount. Then you cross over this way, toward 
the camera, and take Miss Manners in your 
arms-” 

“Oh, I say!” expostulated Kenneth Clifford. 
“It’s not done on the polo field—that sort of 
thing! Really, it isn’t! ” 

“ It is in this case, ’ ’ said Montague. ‘ 4 You ’re 
supposed to be in love with this lady and she’s 
supposed to be in love with you.” 

[ 79 ] 









BUCK PAKVIH AND THE MOVIES 


4 ‘Oh, I say!” murmured Kenneth Clifford 
again, staring at Miss Manners. 

“That’s the action,” said Montague. “Bet¬ 
ter rehearse it a few times. ... Not at all like 
it!” said the director after the first attempt. 
“You’re too stiff, Devenham! Watch me 
once! ’ ’ 

Montague embraced the lady fervently, much 
to Kenneth Clifford’s amazement; but he 
profited by the lesson, and after the third re¬ 
hearsal the director signaled the camera man 
to make the picture. 

“Say, Jimmy,” said Miss Manners, “don’t 
you think it would be better if he kissed me? 
That would be the natural thing to do, you 
know. ’ ’ 

Kenneth Clifford gasped. 

“Sure!” said Montague. “As soon as you 
put your arms round her, Devenham, kiss her 
•—and don’t cloak the action when you do it.” 

“Do I really kiss her—or just make be¬ 
lieve?” asked Kenneth Clifford. “It seems 
such a cheeky thing to do—rather.” 

“Use your own judgment,” said Buck. “If 
it was me I’d give that lady a real good smack 
and take a chance on a bawl-out afterward. 
Jimmy Montague, he always kisses her on the 
square when he’s workin’ in a love scene with 
her; but then—Jim’s the director.” 

“Ah!” said Kenneth Clifford. 

6 ‘ Ready—Action—Go! ’ ’ shouted the director. 

Kenneth Clifford did not kiss the beautiful 

ISO] 





THE INTERNATIONAL CUP 


leading lady, though he was sorely tempted to 
do so. It would have taken a film expert to tell 
the difference, however; and as his lips grazed 
hers he murmured something that caused the 
young woman to hide her face upon his shoulder 
to cloak a smile. 

“Only fancy, Miss Manners!” he whispered. 
“They actually pay me a pound a day—for 
this! I should pay them—really!” 


V 

The first time Alice Burwell refused to marry 
Kenneth Clifford she was convinced that she 
meant her “No” to he final. The second time 
she was not quite so sure; and the other seven 
times she refused him purely from habit. 

Kenneth Clifford’s broken good-by did not 
move the lady to any great extent. That also 
had become a habit. Beginning with the fourth 
refusal, he had not once failed to conclude the 
ceremony with a touching little speech of fare¬ 
well, always with the same little quiver in his 
voice. On one occasion he had been quite cer¬ 
tain he was going to India to be eaten by tigers; 
again it had been Johannesburg; and the third 
time he favored New Zealand. After the eighth 
refusal he purchased a ticket to Paris. These 
things being so, Miss Burwell was the least 
little bit indignant when she learned that Ken¬ 
neth Clifford had really sailed for America. 

[ 81 ] 







BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


She waited confidently for a letter, bnt no 
such missive arrived. At the end of two months 
Miss BurwelPs surprise was entirely swallowed 
up in indignation. 

Still, if he did not care to write she would 
never be the one to break the silence. Having 
satisfied herself upon this point, Miss Burwell 
called upon Battersby—on business, of course 
—and Kenneth Clifford’s name was mentioned, 
quite by accident. 

“Yes,” said the solicitor; “I hear from him 
regularly. His latest plan is to buy a ranch in 
the Rocky Mountains near Chicago. He says 
America is a vast country and the people are 
most charming.” 

* 6 Indeed! ’ ’ said the young woman. ‘ ‘ He will 
remain abroad indefinitely then!” 

“So he leads me to believe,’’ remarked Bat¬ 
tersby. “It seems a pity, my dear.” 

“Not at all,” said Miss Burwell. “He is old 
enough to know his own mind; and if he prefers 
America to England-” 

After she had gone Battersby shook his gray 
head and sighed. 

At the end of five months Miss Burwell went 
to London to visit her aunt. She had reached 
a state of mind bordering on acute exaspera¬ 
tion. Fortunately for London, the young 
woman was not in the least interested in the 
Militant Suffrage movement, else had she be¬ 
come what our harassed English cousins term 
a Bashibazoukess—a lady with a hammer in 
[ 82 ] 





THE INTERNATIONAL CUP 


one hand and a suitcase full of petrol in the 
other. Alice Burwell was ripe for window- 
smashing and fiery demonstrations. One may 
refuse a young man often enough to form the 
habit, but it is most exasperating to have that 
young man calmly accept the habit as incurable. 
The best thing about our habits is the firm be¬ 
lief that we can break ourselves of them at any 
time. 

In London Alice met many young men, some 
of whom were bright, some stupid, some timid 
and some overbold. None pleased her; but this 
would have been hard to guess by her feverish 
gayety when in company. When alone she 
played the piano softly in the twilight and sang 
old songs in an indifferent contralto voice. 

One afternoon Miss Burwell slipped into a 
moving-picture theater. She did not like mov¬ 
ing pictures, for they usually made her head 
ache; but the posters outside depicted the haz¬ 
ards and hardships of life in the Wild West, and 
she was interested in the subject. 

The picture flickering upon the screen was 
a disappointment. Instead of cowboys and In¬ 
dians she saw men in pith helmets and white 
riding breeches careening furiously about a 
polo field. She closed her eyes to wait for the 
Indians. 

i ‘Look sharp there! He’ll ride you down!” 

A voice spoke behind her in accents of warn¬ 
ing, and Alice opened her eyes. Two players 
swept into the foreground—one slightly in ad- 
[ 83 ] 










BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


vance, the other in pursuit. There was a col¬ 
lision ; the first rider pitched out of his saddle, 
and through the dust haze a single figure came 
dashing, mallet flung aloft. Alice Burwell 
saw nothing but the face of the rider, life-size 
upon the canvas, and seemingly so close that 
she might have touched it by stretching out her 
hand. There was no mistaking a single feature 
of that honest and not too handsome counte¬ 
nance. She recognized it at once—would have 
recognized it anywhere. The man on the polo 
pony was none other than the recreant Kenneth 
Clifford. Miss Burwell ’s fingers closed convul¬ 
sively upon the handle of her parasol; and if 
all the truth must be told she made a noise like 
a startled hen. 

The picture disappeared and in its place was 
an announcement—Love Triumphant. 

Again Kenneth Clifford came riding straight 
into the picture. She saw him fling himself 
from his pony and leap forward eagerly—and 
then, and not till then, she saw the girl. With 
the smile she knew so well, Kenneth Clifford 
took the stranger in his arms and—yes—he 
kissed her! Kissed her with all those people 
looking on! Shame! Before the girl hid her 
face upon Kenneth Clifford’s shoulder there 
was ample time to see that she was very, very 
beautiful. 

That was enough for Miss Burwell. She left 
the theater and went for a long walk. 

The next afternoon she dodged a bridge 
[ 84 ] 




THE INTERNATIONAL. CUP 


party and went back to tbe moving-picture thea¬ 
ter. This time she saw tbe entire film—Ken¬ 
neth Clifford arriving at the hotel in a smart 
trap; Kenneth Clifford escorting the lovely 
stranger over the lawn; Kenneth Clifford in 
an earnest tete-a-tete upon the veranda—oh, if 
she only understood lip-reading! Kenneth Clif¬ 
ford drinking tea, which she knew he loathed 
and had always refused at her hands! Again 
she saw him flashing about the polo field—again 
she saw him ride toward the sidelines; but this 
time she was watching the girl. What sort of 
woman was it who would actually return a kiss 
before such a cloud of witnesses? 

One of the theater attaches was an obliging 
youth, who answered as many of her questions 
as he could. 

“Carn’t say, miss; but she’s some American 
actress. . . . Yes, miss; they ’ave regular com¬ 
panies, same as in the theaters. We recognize 
the faces from seem’ ’em so frequentlike. . . . 
’Im? A new one, miss. . . . Clever actor, ain’t 
’e? Somewheres in the States. . . . Titan Com¬ 
pany is wot they calls it. . . . Thank you, 
miss!” 

Alice went straight to the nearest telegraph 
office, where she addressed a brief message to 
Hubert Battersby, Solicitor. 


[ 85 ] 










BUCK PABVIH AHD THE MOVIES 


VI 

“Why, listen to reason, Algy!” argued Buck. 
“What do you want to blow the job for? Extry 
man a couple of months ago, an’ now you’re 
playin’ a line of special leads while La Rue is 
on his vacation. Seventy-five a week! Pretty 
soft—if you ask me! What do you want, any¬ 
way?” 

They were sitting outside the studio at the 
Titan headquarters, dressed in the regulation 
Western garb as it is seen in the movies. Jim¬ 
my Montague was putting the finishing touches 
on a work of art entitled ‘ ‘ My Lord the Tender¬ 
foot,” with Kenneth Clifford in the name part. 

He had been tossed in a blanket by hilarious 
cowpunchers, dumped into a creek, thrown off 
a bucking broncho, and treed by Jeff, the tame 
bear from the animal farm. He had rescued 
the ranchman’s daughter from drowning, saved 
the property from foreclosure, foiled the wicked 
foreman, and had but one more scene to play, 
in which he was to win the lovely Myrtle Man¬ 
ners for the seventh time since he had been an 
actor. Jimmy Montague was not the man to 
waste a perfect type when he had one. 

“What do you want to quit for, Algy?” per¬ 
sisted Buck. “Feet itchin’ to be travelin’ again, 
or what ? ’ ’ 

“My dear fellow,” said Kenneth Clifford, 

[ 86 ] 




THE INTERNATIONAL CUP 


i ‘ I Ve had a charming experience. I shall never 
forget it—really; but the truth of the matter 
is, I’ve a bit of money coming, which should 
be here to-morrow. It’s from my father’s es¬ 
tate—a matter of four thousand a year.” 

Buck whistled. 

“Four—thousand—dollars!” said he rever¬ 
ently. “No wonder you want to quit! If I had 
four thousand cents I’d quit with you.” 

“Not dollars, Buck—pounds, old fellow— 
pounds!” 

Parvin’s chin sagged and his tobacco sack 
slipped from his fingers. 

“Wait a minute!” he pleaded. “Look mo 
right between the eyes—I think my mind is go¬ 
ing. Now, then, hand it to me easy; there’s 
heart disease in my family. Four thousand 
pounds a year! Is that twenty thousand dol¬ 
lars in our money, or do I just think so?” 

“Something like that,” said Kenneth Clif¬ 
ford, grinning. 

Buck slid limply off the bench, wiggling his 
fingers feebly. 

“Air!” he murmured. “Gimme air! My 
socks have got holes in ’em! When I eat I got 
to count my dough first to see if I’ve got enough 
for pie. I drink bartenders’ mistakes even; 
but this guy here—he gets twenty thousand a 
year just for bein’ alive! Air!” 

“Oh, I say, Buck! Don’t be a silly ass! 
Money isn’t everything.” 

“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to kid myself 

f87] 






BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


into thinkin’ for the last twenty years, 7 ’ said 
Buck, rising and shaking the dust from his 
clothes. “But if I had all the dough I could 
spend I reckon I could get along without the 
things it won’t buy.” 

“Money,” said Kenneth Clifford soberly, 
“will buy you everything in the world but the 
one thing you want most.” 

“Is that so? What do you want that you 
can’t get for twenty thousand a year?” 

“A girl,” said Kenneth Clifford. 

“Excuse me for buttin’ in, Algy,” said Buck 
after a pause. “I hadn’t no right to ask that 
question. ’ ’ 

“Never mind, old chap,” said Kenneth Clif¬ 
ford. “It’s all right; but——” 

“Hey! You fellows gone to sleep out there? 
Come on! We’re ready for this scene.” 

It was the voice of authority speaking 
through the lips of J. Montague, director. 

“Right-oh!” said Kenneth Clifford. 

“And get a wiggle on you!” said Montague. 
“The light’s changing and I want to get it 
over quick. This is the action: Buck, you come 
in with the mail and find Dev sitting on the 
porch alone. You hand him this letter and go 
on into the house. Dev, you open the letter 
and register surprise. Hold that while I count 
five. We’ll make a cut-in of the letter, showing 
that you’ve succeeded to the title and the es¬ 
tates and have been called home to England. 
You come in at five, Myrtle. Ask him what’s 
[ 88 ] 






THE INTERNATIONAL CUP 


the matter. Dev, you hand her the letter; and 
while she reads it you register that you’d pro¬ 
pose to her if you wasn’t afraid. Start to say 
something and quit, and turn away with your 
head down—like this. . . . Myrtle, you ask him 
if he’s going back to the old country. Dev, you 
nod your head—yes. Myrtle, do you remember 
that bully line in Arizona? ‘You’re going to 
ride away—without one word—to me!’ Hand 
him that speech. Dev, you grab the letter out 
of her hands, crumple it up and throw it on the 
floor, and stamp on it. You give up the title 
for the girl—see? She holds out her arms to 

you- Bing!—into a clinch. You kiss—and 

that’s the end of the scene. Got it ? All right! 
Bun through it a couple of times.” 

At the end of the second rehearsal a messen¬ 
ger boy entered, whistling discordantly. 

“Say, w’ich of de ginks is named Dev—Dev 
—aw, some kind of a ham? Dey sent me out 
from de hotel. W’ich is him?” 

“You’re a pretty fresh guy for a feller your 
size,” said Buck, taking the boy by the ear. 
“Telegram for you, Algy!” 

“Ah-r-r! Leggo me ear!” growled the lad, 
kicking at Buck. “Youse movin’-pitcher Jesse 
Jameses gives me a pain! ’ ’ 

Kenneth Clifford, seated and ready for the 
final scene, was still staring at the cablegram 
when Jimmy Montague’s voice brought him 
back to America and the business in hand. 

“Come out of it, Dev!” he urged. “We’re 
[ 89 ] 








BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


going to make the picture this time. All set, 
Buck ? Got the letter ? Ready—Action—Go! ’ 9 

Buck swaggered into the focal plane, handed 
Kenneth Clifford a square envelope, slapped 
him on the shoulder and passed through the 
wall representing the front of a Western ranch 
house. 

“Gee!” he whispered to Miss Manners. 
“Algy got some kind of a jolt in that telegram. 
He’s white as a sheet. You know, that guy has 
got-” 

“Three—four—five!” Montague counted for 
the cut-in. “Come on, Myrtle! . . . Oh, wake 
up, Dev! Get in the picture. Hand her the 
letter. . . . Now, then, register hesitation! 
. . . That’s all right! . . . 4 You ’re going to 
ride away—without one word—to me!’ . . . 
Grab the letter, Dev! . . . That’s right! . . . 
Bully! Folks, that comes pretty near being 
a swell little love scene! Dev, I didn’t know 
you had it in you!” 

Miss Manners stepped back and looked up 
at Kenneth Clifford with a question in her eyes. 

4 4 Well, Algy! ’ ’ she said at length. 4 4 Why the 
realism, may I ask?” 

Kenneth Clifford blushed. 

4 4 1 beg your pardon, ’ ’ he said. 4 4 1—I’ve made 
believe to kiss you so often, my dear, that I 
thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind if—if I 
had a real one for once—just for good-by, you 
know. ’ ’ 


[ 90 ] 






THE INTERNATIONAL CUP 


“Good-by!” said Miss Manners. “Are yon 
going away?” 

“Well, rather!” said Kenneth Clifford, draw¬ 
ing the cablegram from his pocket. “Yon re¬ 
member I told yon something abont—a girl? 
See what she says: ‘Stop being an actor and 
come home!’ What I can’t understand is this: 
How in the world did she know what I was do¬ 
ing over here? I haven’t told a soul. Most 
extraordinary thing !’ 9 

Miss Manners laughed. 

“Why,” said she, “the polo picture went to 
England, of course. I’ll bet she saw it and 
recognized you!” 

“Oh, I say!” murmured Kenneth Clifford, 
aghast. “I should never have thought of that !’ 9 

“She couldn’t have missed that close-up of 
you and me at the end of the picture,” said 
Miss Manners mischievously. “Young man, I 
think you’ll have something to explain when 
you get home! ’ ’ 

‘ ‘Ah! ’ ’ said Kenneth Clifford. ‘ ‘ In that case 
I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb! ’ 9 

And he kissed the lovely Miss Manners when 
the camera was not looking, which goes to show 
that Kenneth Clifford was not so slow, after all. 






MAN-AFRAID-OF-HIS-WARDROBE 


M R. BUCHANAN PARVIN, moving- 
picture Westerner by profession and 
extra man by force of circumstance, 
dropped bis heavy rifle, shifted his 
blanket roll and haversack, removed his ancient 
fatigue cap and offered a perspiring brow to the 
cooling breeze. 

“Nothing to it!” said Buck querulously. 
“ Uncle Billy Sherman sure knew something 
when he called the turn on the war business. 
The real thing was bad enough, I reckon; but 
it wasn’t a patch on this moving-picture Civil 
War stuff. In Uncle Billy’s time if a man was 
winged he could lay down and take a rest, or 
else go to a hospital and have a pretty nurse 
hold his hand; if he was killed he was through 
for the day. There’s some sense to that kind 
of a war, but this bushwhacking that we’re do¬ 
ing ain’t got no beginning or no end. 

“Take me, for instance. I’ve been killed on 
every steep hill in Los Angeles County and 
wounded every little while reg’lar; and I’m still 
packing this confounded blunderbuss* around. 
I’ve helped to capture more cannons than Na- 
[ 92 ] 







MAN-AFRAID-OF-HIS-WARDROBE 


poleon ever saw. IVe crawled miles and miles 
on my stomach, collecting red ants and wood- 
ticks that I couldn’t scratch because the camera 
was looking at me. I ’ve charged till I was black 
in the face. I’m a veteran of Bull Run, Antie- 
tam, Lookout Mountain, Shiloh, the Wilderness, 
Gettysburg—and I held Grant’s hawss at Ap¬ 
pomattox and loaned him the makings of a cig¬ 
arette. I’ve been in Libby Prison twice. 

4 ‘Phil Sherman and me is pals. I showed him 
how to make that ride and rehearsed the hawss 
four times. I fought under Grant, Lee, Sher¬ 
man, Stonewall Jackson, Bragg, McClellan, 
Hooker, Ben Butler, Jim Montague—and a- 
many more that I disremember right now. I’m 
a Yank one day and a Johnny Reb the next; 
I get it on both sides, so to speak; and what 
Uncle Billy said about this business goes double 
for me. I ought to have about a million dol¬ 
lars cornin’—in pensions—but I’d swap the 
whole works for a nice cool scuttle of beer. 
What fool started this here war anyhow?” 

The camera had run out of film and, while 
the photographer was reloading, the Union 
troops rested and cursed history. A portly gen¬ 
tleman in gray wig and beard and the uniform 
of an infantry colonel grinned at Buck from 
the ground where he had thrown himself. 

4 4 Cheer up, old horse! ’ ’ said the colonel—be¬ 
hind his beard he was Charlie Jennings, a re¬ 
tired stock actor and assistant to James Mon¬ 
tague, the producing director— 44 Cheer up! 
[ 93 ] 







BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


This will be the last of the war pictures for a 
couple of months. We’re going back to the 
wild and woolly in a day or two.” 

4 4 Western stuff ? ’ ’ asked Buck. 4 4 Good news! 
Who told you so ? ” 

4 4 Jimmy Montague, ’ ’ replied Jennings. 4 4 He 
got word this morning to fix up a lot of West¬ 
ern scenarios quick. The boss in New York 
has signed A. Lester Hale to work in ten pic¬ 
tures—special Western leads. Ever hear of 
him—A. Lester Hale?” 

44 Sure!” said Buck. 44 He’s the stage cow- 
puncher, ain’t he? Since when has he been in 
the movies?” 

4 4 This is his first experience,” said J ennings; 
44 and what I can’t understand is how the boss 
came to hook him. Hale is a tremendous suc¬ 
cess on the stage. Years ago he made a hit as 
a cowpuncher, and he hasn’t played anything 
but cowpunchers since. Mighty good at it too. 
He’s been starring with his own company for 
the last six seasons. His name on the billboards 
will make these Western pictures go like a 
house afire. The women are simply crazy about 
him. They think he’s the only actor in the 
world. ’ ’ 

4 4 Huh! They do, eh ? What do the men think 
about him?” 

44 Well,” said Jennings slowly, 44 I guess 
Hale’s all right. I played with him once in 
summer stock in Denver; and, though he ain’t 
the sort of man that would ever really hate 
[ 94 ] 




MAN-AFRAID-OF-HIS-WARDROBE 


himself to death, he may be a good fellow at 
ihat. I never got close enough to him to get 
a real line, because he was always a little bit 
upstage. Most stars are that way, Buck. But 
the women—he certainly is an ace with them!’ 9 

“Uh-huh!’’ said Buck, rolling a brown-paper 
cigarette. ‘‘I’ll do my level darndest not to let 
that prejudice me agin him. Never take a 
woman’s judgment about any man but yourself, 
Charlie. Ten times out of nine they’re wrong. 
If they like your hair or your teeth they’re li¬ 
able to overlook a heap of dark spots in your 
character. Now when I was down in the Pecos 
country I knew a feller named Pete McCaskey. 

4 ‘Mac was a right nice quiet sort of a guy 
until he got about seven or fifteen drinks under 
his belt, and then he’d go home and lick his 
wife. Not because he didn’t like her, you un¬ 
derstand, but just because it was a kind of habit 
with him. Whenever I’m tanked right I get a 
craving to whale a street-car conductor. I don’t 
know why—it’s just a fool notion I get. Mac, 
he used to pike for home when he got about so 
much and give his wife a dressing down. Great 
big fat woman she was, with blue eyes. He 
called her Birdie. 

“By and by Mac couldn’t get enough action 
with his fists, so he took to using the furniture; 
and old Doc Bowen would have to go over and 
patch Birdie up. One night Mac got familiar 
with a new brand of booze and went after Birdie 
with a bed slat. Doc Bowen told me that 
[ 95 ] 







BUCK PAR YIN AND THE MOVIES 


woman’s back looked like one of them old-fash¬ 
ioned crazy quilts—black and blue and green 
and yellow. The doc, he fixed her up the best 
he could, and then he handed her some advice. 

“ 4 Look here, Mrs. McCaskey,’ he says. 
‘Why don’t you tell Pete this rough stuff has 
got to stop ? These parties he’s giving you are 
cornin’ too reg’lar. Last week he nearly broke 
your arm; week before that it was your leg. 
Now he’s got your back all marked up like a 
zebra. You tell Pete he’s got to behave or 
you ’ll quit him. ’ 

“ ‘Why, doc,’ says Birdie, beginnin’ to bawl, 
‘you don’t understand Pete. You don’t know 
what a good feller he is. In lots of ways he’s 
the most considerate man in the world!’ 

“ ‘Considerate!’ says the doc. ‘Your back 
looks like he was considerate, ma’am! It’ll be 
black and blue for a month. I wish you could 
see it. ’ 

“ ‘I know it will,’ says Birdie, snuffling and 
wiping her eyes. ‘I know it will, doc; but, even 
when Pete’s drinking and roughest with me, 
he’s awful thoughtful in some ways. Believe 
it or not, in all the years we’ve been married he 
ain’t never yet so far forgot himself as to put 
a mark on me where anybody could see it! ’ 

“And that’s the way a woman figures,” con¬ 
cluded Buck. “Their bein’ strong for Hale 
don’t make him real , you know. I got to see 
the bird before I make up my mind. . . . Come 
on, you noble heroes! The camera guy has got 
[ 96 ] 




MAN-AERAID-OF-HIS-WARDROBE 


the box threaded up and ready for business. I’ll 
bet anybody three to one we have to make that 
last charge all over again.’’ 


n 

James Montague, producing director for the 
Titan Company and a person of considerable 
importance in the moving-picture world—which 
is rather a larger world than most people think 
—put on kid gloves and a stiff hat and went 
downtown to call upon A. Lester Hale as soon 
as he was advised that the star had arrived 
from New York. Jimmy was the sort of a man 
who would go barehanded before kings and em¬ 
perors ; but he felt it necessary to put on gloves 
for one who was to receive ten thousand dol¬ 
lars for working in ten moving pictures. 

After some delay he was ushered into a three- 
room suite in the most expensive hotel in Los 
Angeles, where he discovered a tall, handsome 
young man in smoking jacket and furred Rus¬ 
sian slippers, who found it too great an ex¬ 
ertion to rise or shake hands, but waved a gold- 
tipped Cairo cigarette in languid welcome. 

“You’ll excuse me, mister—mister—I believe 
I’ve mislaid your card—but the newspaper men 
were just here and, of course, I had to get rid 
of them. Awful bore to be interviewed every 
time one turns round, isn’t it? And they posi¬ 
tively cost me a fortune in photographs.” 

[ 97 ] 






BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


“You’ve got a few left, I see,” said Mon¬ 
tague, looking about him. No less than eight 
different poses of the great stage Westerner 
were displayed in various parts of the room. 

4 ‘ If the newspaper men hunt you it’s better than 
hiring a press agent to hunt them.” 

“I dare say,” remarked Hale carelessly. 
“It’s a nuisance, though. Reporters run in 
at all times; they seem to have no respect for 
privacy, no finer feelings, no-” 

A thin, sad young man came in from the other 
room and waited at Hale’s elbow. 

“Well, James, what is it now?” 

“Beg pardon, sir, I telephoned all the news¬ 
papers, sir. Three of them wouldn’t send re¬ 
porters, but said they might print the photo¬ 
graphs if-” 

“That will do, James!” said Hale sternly. 
“You may go.” 

“Yes, sir,” said the valet, disappearing 
noiselessly. 

6 ‘ Stupid fellow! ’ ’ fumed Hale. 4 ‘ I don’t know 
where he got that idea—oh, may I offer you a 
drink ? ” i 

Montague grinned at the clumsy attempt to 
cover up an unfortunate situation. 

“Not so early in the morning,” said he. 

“Ah—perhaps I can do something for you?” 

“No, I guess not. You see, I’m the produc¬ 
ing director for most of the Western stuff that 
we put out—sort of a stage manager; and I 
dropped in to get acquainted and talk over the 
[ 98 ] 





MAN-AFRAID-OF-HIS-WARDROBE 


kind of work that will show yon to the best ad¬ 
vantage. ’ ’ 

“Oh, yes,” said Hale. “A very good idea. 
Perhaps, though, Mister-” 

“Montague,” said Jimmy. 

“Perhaps, Mr. Montague, it would be better 
if I should have a chat with your—dramatist, 
do you call him? I might suggest to him a few 
ideas and-” 

“I’m the dramatist,” said Jimmy cheerfully. 
“I dope out most of the pictures.” 

“Indeed!” said Hale, elevating his eyebrows. 
“I presume the things you are about to pro¬ 
duce will be written round my impersonation 
of the Westerner—the cowpuncher type, you 
know. Of course you are familiar with the 
parts I play?” 

“No,” said Montague. “I may have seen 
you somewhere, but I don’t remember it.” If 
not actually turning, the worm was twisting 
slightly. “Can you ride a horse?” 

Mr. A. Lester Hale flicked the ash from his 
cigarette with a gesture that dismissed the sub¬ 
ject utterly. 

“Anything that wears a bridle,” said he. 

6 ‘ Fine! What sort of an outfit did you bring 
with you?” 

‘ 1 My stage costumes, ’ ’ said Hale. ‘‘1 brought 
my own saddle and rope, and all that sort of 
thing. ’ ’ 

“You handle a rope, then?” Montague was 
interested. 

[99] 








BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


“Oh, yes,” said Hale. “I had to use one 
in my play two seasons ago. I thought it might 
come in handy, so I brought it along.’’ 

“Bully!” said the director. “I can write a 
whole picture round a roping scene. We have 
twenty or thirty steers out at the farm that 
we use in Western pictures—Texas long-horns 
—and you can rope one of them.” 

“Of course IVe never done any range work,” 
said Hale—“not with real cattle, you under¬ 
stand; but the principle of the thing is the 
same.” 

“Ever had any experience with movie stuff 
•—watched pictures being made, I mean ? ’’ 

“Oh, dear, no!” said the actor. “This is 
my first offense, I assure you. I had some open 
time this summer; I wanted to see the West, and 
—here I am. It’s a nice way to make expenses 
during the dull season, isn’t it? I presume, 
on the whole, moving-picture work is much sim¬ 
pler than acting—no strain on the voice.” 

“Yes,” said Jimmy Montague, “it’s dead 
easy when you get the hang of it. Here is the 
address of the studio. If you will be there to¬ 
morrow at nine and bring all your things with 
you-•” 

“Nine!” exclaimed Hale. “Isn’t that very 
early ? ’ ’ 

“Not for moving-picture people. The light 
is better then. I’ll bid you good-morning.” 

Jimmy Montague rolled back to the studio in 

[ 100 ] 




MAN-AFRAID-OF-HIS-WAKDROBE 


one of the company’s automobiles, talking to 
himself. ' • 

“And that’s the fellow that plays cowpnncher 
parts!” he soliloquized. “Ten thousand dol¬ 
lars in real money for ten pictures—expenses 
during the dull season! It’s a high price for 
cheese.” 

The next morning A. Lester Hale, hag, bag¬ 
gage and valet, arrived at the Titan studio. 
Jimmy Montague, in a dirty slouch hat, dis¬ 
reputable chaps and high-heeled boots, wel¬ 
comed him cheerfully. 

“I play the heavies in the Western pictures,” 
said Montague in explanation. “That’s why 
I’m made up. This will be your dressing-room, 
Mr. Hale.” It was the one the director had 
just vacated, consequently the best allotted to 
the men. “Get on your cowpuncher togs and 
don’t make your face up very much.” 

The star looked about him and sniffed. 

“This dressing-room is too small,” said he. 
“Have you nothing larger?” 

“Miss Manners has the largest dressing- 
room,” said Montague. “She is our leading 
woman. ’ ’ 

A. Lester Hale sat down on one of his trunks 
and fumbled with a gold cigarette case. He 
had the air of one who prepares to stand a long 
siege. 

“Simply out of the question!” said he. “I 
should stifle in a coop of that size. Why, there' 
[ 101 ] 









BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


isn’t room enough for me to hang up my things! 
And then I have my man!” 

So Miss Manners was turned out of her dress¬ 
ing-room, a process involving a great deal of 
hard work for a young woman without a maid. 
Hale took possession at once, and forgot to 
thank her. 

“Jimmy,” whispered that very angry little 
lady, “your new leading man may know how 
to act, but if you cast him for a gentleman you’ll 
have to rehearse every scene with him.” 

“I’m awfully sorry, Myrtle,” apologized the 
director, “but you see how it is. He’s got the 
theater idea about the star dressing-room and 
he thinks he’s entitled to it here. Wait till I 
get him out on a location somewhere when there 
ain’t any women round—and I’ll make him 
change his clothes in a bunch of cactus or be¬ 
hind a horse!” 

“Pass out your saddle, Mr. Hale,” called 
Montague. “I’ll have one of the boys put it 
on Teddy. He’s the best-looking horse we’ve 
got. We’re going to make the outdoor stuff 
first, while the carpenters get the interiors 
ready. We’ll go into the hills and make some 
runs.” 

Buck Parvin was the man who did the sad¬ 
dling. His eyes opened wide as he inspected 
Hale’s equipment. 

“I’ve dreamed about saddles like this,” said 
Buck, “but doggone me if I ever thought I’d 
hold one in my hands! Look at her, Jim! Ain’t 
[ 102 ] 






MAN-AFRAID-OF-HIS-WARDROBE 


she a humdinger ? Hand-stamped leather, buck¬ 
ing rolls, Visalia tree, and—holy Moses, Jim, 
d’you reckon that plate on the cantleboard is 
gold? ‘To A. Lester Hale from admiring 
friends.’ Gee! Ho champion broncho-twister 
even won a hull like this! . . . Braided-hair 
bridle, single loop; headstall and cheekstraps all 
covered with silver dewdads—and A. L. H. on 
every one of ’em! Wowie! . . . Spanish spade 
bit! Beckon I better loosen up the chinstrap 
or he’ll bust Teddy’s jaw. . . . Bearskin sad¬ 
dle-pockets, with silver name-plates on ’em. 
That’s poor, I s’pose; yes, perfectly miserable! 
. . . And feel of these blankets! Navajo, Jim, 
and as soft as silk! 

“Why, say, you could cinch this saddle on 
to me and I’d be proud to have anybody ride 
me plumb downtown! The only thing that looks 
bad about the outfit is this braided-leather rope. 
She’s a beauty, but she’s been hangin’ in the 
tiestraps for so long that she’s ’most cracked 
in two from lack of use. Yes, sir—that rope is 
sure lashed permanent. If he ever made a cast 
with it and took a dally or two round the horn, 
zing!—good night, rope! Just wait till I show 
all this class to that Teddy hawss, and he’ll be 
so puffed up he won’t never look at the rest of 
them ordinary plugs!” 

The favorable impression created by Hale’s 
saddle was sustained and strengthened by his 
appearance as he stepped out of his dressing 
room. His legs were cased in white angora 
[ 103 ] 









BUCK PAKVIH AXD THE MOVIES 


chaps, which had been curried and brushed 
until each long silky hair was in its place. His 
trousers were of whipcord and the boots of 
soft leather with Mexican heels. His spurs 
were of silver, with an eight-inch shank and a 
two-inch rowel; and the chains dragged full 
six inches behind his heels as he walked. 

About his slender waist was strapped a 
heavy cartridge belt, from which swung a 
stamped-leather holster, sheltering a pearl- 
handled and gold-plated forty-five caliber re¬ 
volver—the same that had barked death to 
many a villain in the last act, and caused thou¬ 
sands of matinee girls to cover their ears and 
squeak with pleasurable fright. 

His light-blue shirt was of silk, with a large 
embroidered monogram on the pocket. His 
crimson bandanna was also of silk, and the ends 
were passed through an immense gold ring, in 
which a two-carat diamond sparkled. His som¬ 
brero was of the softest gray beaver, eighteen 
inches across the brim, with a twelve-inch 
crown—price, thirty-five dollars. The band was 
of gold filigree, studded with tourmalines. His 
quirt was stiff with gold cord. 

Buck Parvin took one long look and went out 
behind the developing room to express his feel¬ 
ings. 

“Don’t cuss like that, Buck,” said Ben Leslie, 
the property man. “You won’t catch no fish.” 

14 Look at me! ’ ’ said Buck tragically. ‘ ‘ I used 
to be the niftiest thing on the Coast in the cow- 
[ 104 ] 




MAN-AFRAID-OF-HIS-WARDROBE 


puncher line, didn’t I? I had ’em all breakin’ 
their necks to rubber when I went by. Folks 
used to say: ‘There goes the real thing! Con¬ 
siderable class to that!’ It was a mistake. I 
ain’t real, Ben. I’m a bum negative—that’s 
what I am. I’m full of pinholes, fogged on both 
ends, and light-struck in the middle. They 
wouldn’t run me in a five-cent house—not even 
for a chaser. These clothes of mine looked 
pretty good an hour ago, but now I’m just sort 
of lingering round, waiting for the garbage 
wagon to come along—and then I’m going to 
climb aboard and say: ‘Home, James!’ . . . 
Don’t laugh—doggone you! Can’t you see your 
Uncle Buck’s heart is cracked plumb in two?” 

“What cracked it?” asked Leslie, a man of 
few words but keen perceptions. “Got a new 
lookin’-glass in the extry men’s dressing 
room?” 

“I’ve seen the difference between a phony 
and the real thing,” said Buck. “So will you 
when you get a flash at that new leadin’ man. 
Chaps lined with kid—hair on ’em a foot long; 
solid gold smoke-pole; Kansas City boots; sil¬ 
ver spurs that weigh a couple of pounds apiece; 
diamonds all over him, like a pawnbroker’s 
bride. Why, say, Ben, if I could steal them 
clothes and wear ’em just once at the Cheyenne 
Frontier Day—if I could put ’em on and kind 
of stroll down and stand in front of the Inter¬ 
ocean Hotel along about train time and let the 
boys look me over—I’d be ashamed to ask to 
[ 105 ] 








BUCK PABVIN AND THE MOVIES 


go to Heaven when I die! It would be stretch¬ 
ing the luck too far. Yes, sir—this guy has got 
the richest and the best what is, and all what is, 
I reckon; and if he ever throws that hatband 
away ole Buck will jump after it if it’s a thou¬ 
sand feet straight down!” 

“Well,” remarked Ben Leslie “handsome is 
as handsome does.” 

“Like hell it is!” said Buck savagely. “I 
sprung that chestnut on a cross-eyed woman 
once, figuring to comfort her a little bit. ’’ 

“Did it work?” asked Ben. 

“Got action on it right away quick!” said 
Buck. 4 ‘ She grabbed a skillet off the stove and 
just flattened it on my face. Folks that has to 
take second money get sore when you remind 
’em of it.” 


Ill 

It was late in the afternoon when the moving- 
picture Westerners returned to the studio. The 
new leading man dismounted stiffly and hobbled 
toward his dressing-room, looking neither to 
the right nor the left. There was in his stride a 
mixture of lofty reserve, wounded dignity and 
saddle soreness that caused Ben Leslie to grin 
as he sat in the doorway of the property room, 
checking off a list of props with a carpenter’s 
pencil. 

After Buck’s horse was in the barn he sought 

[ 106 ] 




MAX-AFRAID-OF-HIS-WARDROBE 


out Leslie and borrowed a generous portion of 
fine-cut tobacco, a sure sign that he had a tale 
to unfold. Ben assisted him with a casual re¬ 
mark. 

1 ‘ Solomon-in-all-his-glory just got back,’ ’ said 
he. “At first I thought it was a stepladder get¬ 
ting oft the horse; but I looked again and I see 
it was your friend with the dude buckaroG 
clothes.” 

“I guess he walked kind of lame, did he?’* 
chuckled Buck. 

“Lame! He went to his dressing-room like a 
tragedy queen with the spring-halt. Struck 
me as funny, because I heard him telling Charlie 
Jennings that he could ride anything with hair 
on it.” 

“Bide!” said Buck. “Say, Ben, that guy 
couldn’t ride a hair mattress. He couldn’t 
ride in a box car with the door shut. All he’s 
got is the clothes. No more real Western abil¬ 
ity than a canary bird. I got his number as 
soon as we started out this morning. I had 
Teddy all saddled up for him, but Mister Four 
Flush wouldn’t ride to the location with the 
rest of us. Huh-uh! He went out in the auto¬ 
mobile with Montague and the camera man; 
and he took that dough-faced valet of his along. 
One of the boys had to lead his hawss. That 
was where he tipped his mitt to me.” 

“How did he make out?” asked Ben. 

“He didn’t make out at all,” said Buck. 
“Don’t rush me, son. I got to tell this slow or 
[ 107 ] 






BUCK PABVIN AND THE MOVIES 


I’ll spill it. This is too good to be told without 
music. The first run we made was down a little 
pitch in the road and off into the brush. We 
was chasin’ a hawss thief—that Mexican extry 
man. Well, sir, Mister Four Flush takes a look 
at the hill we had to come down and begins to 
holler. He said it was too steep. After that he 
had to know whether Teddy was surefooted. 
That was a warm one to pull on the best stunt 
hawss in the movie business, hey? 

“Well, Jim finally got him ribbed up to make 
the run. There wasn’t no rehearsal—didn’t 
need none, for it was just straight riding stuff. 
All we had to do was follow the Mex on the 
keen jump, whirl our hawsses where he whirled 
his, and take up the side of the hill through the 
brush and weeds. We’d be out of the picture 
as soon as we got off the road. 

“Four Flush, he was to lead the posse, of 
course. The first time Jim yelled for us to 
come on, he didn’t get started and we like to 
run over him. There was a fine mix-up, and 
the Mex had to come back and do it over, and 
Charlie Dupree had thirty or forty feet of 
wasted film on his hands. The next time Jim 
hollered I was right close to Four Flush and I 
nicked Teddy with the spur. Away goes Mis¬ 
ter Good Clothes, pulling leather with both 
hands and yelling Whoa! Whoa! When he got 
close to the camera he mighty nigh bent Teddy 
double, and the way he jounced round in that 
gold-plated saddle was pitiful to see! 

[ 108 ] 




MAN-AFRAID-OF-HIS-WARDKOBE 


“It’s a darned good thing for him that I left 
that chin-strap loose, or else he’d have yanked 
Teddy over backward and most likely got a 
broken neck for it. He come close to falling off 
at the place where we had to take to the woods; 
but Teddy handled him nice, and into the brush 
he went, the rest of us stringing along behind. 

“I was on the tail-end of the run, making one 
of them Snapper Garrison finishes and a-fannin’ 
ole Pieface between the ears for all there was 
in it; and just as he was making the turn, hang- 
in’ on by one spur, out of the brush comes Four 
Flush—on foot, mind you—yelling like he was 
snake-bit! He goes for Montague, square into 
the picture, of course, and spoiled the whole 
run—and you’d never guess what ailed him, 
Ben.” 

“Somebody rode into him from behind and 
bumped him!” 

“No,” said Buck. “The poor unfortunate 
feller had gone through cockleburs and got some 
in his chaps!” 

“Now see here,” said Ben reproachfully, “I 
like a liar, and always did, but there’s times, 
Buck, when you suit me too well.” 

‘ ‘ Cross my heart and hope to die! I wouldn’t 
have believed it, either, if I hadn’t seen it. ‘Get 
back!’ Jim yells at him. ‘Can’t you see you’re 
spoilin’ this picture?’ 

“ ‘What do I care for your darned ole pic¬ 
ture!’ howls Four Flush. ‘You told me to ride 
through them weeds and I done it. Now look 
[ 109 ] 






BUCK PAR YIN" AND THE MOVIES 


at these chaps! They’re a solid mass of 
stickers. ’ 

“ ‘That’s what chaps are for,’ says Jim. 
‘Don’t yon know that film costs money? And 
yon onght to have waited nntil the rnn was 
over! ’ 

“Well, they had it hot and heavy; bnt there 
wasn’t nothing to it. Percy wouldn’t make the 
run again nntil we scouted out a place without 
burs, and Dupree had to shift his camera and 
establish new lines. What he said about Harold 
would have blistered a horny toad; and, with 
Jim Montague helpin’ him with suggestions 
now and then, there wasn’t much language left 
when they got through. Honest, I was afraid 
Jim was going to bust an artery or something. 
Little Casino, the valet, he had a swell job fol¬ 
lowing Four Flush round and gathering a quart 
or so of cockleburs whenever he got a chance! 

“ ‘ I can never wear ’em on the stage again! ’ 
says Harold. 

“Well, when noon came we dug out our 
lunches, but Four Flush didn’t have none—no¬ 
body had told him to bring one. Jim did the 
right thing—he offered him his own lunch; but 
Four Flush wouldn’t touch it, and, while the 
rest of us was eating, him and Little Casino had 
a party all to themselves. They was off under 
a tree gatherin’ another mess of burs out of 
them angora chaps. 

“In the afternoon we made one run through 

[ 110 ] 




MAN-AFRAID-OF-HIS-WARDROBE 


water—shallow water at that. Four Flush 
balked again. 

“ ‘But I’ll get wet!’ he says. ‘I might catch 
cold. I got to protect my voice. Why can’t you 
stop the camera just as I get to the bank and 
leave something to the imagination ? ’ 

‘ ‘ Montague had been getting sorer and sorer; 
and he turned loose in that quiet, raspy way of 
his that kind of makes a fellow feel as if he’d 
been touched up with the hot end of a bull 
whip. 

“ ‘Mr. Hale,” he says, ‘please remember that 
in this business we don’t leave nothing to the 
imagination. This ain’t the stage,’ he says. 
‘This is real scenery and real water. We don’t 
have no canvas rivers in the movies. When 
we go into the water we get wet. I’ve had my 
whole company overboard in the Pacific Ocean. 
This creek is only three feet deep and I guess 
you can stand it. We’ll make the run now, if 
you please.’ 

“Well, Four Flush wasn’t the least mite 
tickled, but he saw he was up against it; so he 
climbs down off his hawss and begins to peel 
his chaps. 

“ ‘Whatever happens,’ he says, ‘I ain’t going 
to have these all sopped up! I couldn’t ever 
wear ’em on the stage again.’ 

“It took Jim half an hour to explain that he’d 
already established them chaps in the other 
runs—and, water or no water, he had to wear 
’em. 


[in] 









BUCK PABYIK AND THE MOVIES 


“ ‘But that’s only a detail,’ says Four Flush, 
sulkylike. 

“ ‘ You’ll find there’s a whole lot of details to 
this business,’ says Jim. 

“He went into the water at last, but he was 
about as tickled over it as a sick hen. He held 
both feet up as high as he could and kept look¬ 
ing down to see how his chaps was getting 
along. That’ll give a film the real Western 
flavor, I reckon. While he was kicking about 
getting wet the auto started back for the studio 
with the first load. Being some damp he 
couldn’t wait, so he tore out on hawssback. He 
come home standing up in the stirrups, because 
it pained him to set down. What do you know 
about that? And him the hero of all them 
Western plays!” 

“Why, he won’t do at all, will he?” asked 
Ben. 

“Hush, man! Don’t make me laugh. The 
poor sucker can’t even set still on a hawss 
without worryin’ all over his face. What would 
he do in some of them real tough runs and 
chases that Jim Montague frames up for us— 
lickety-split down the side of a canon? They 
get my goat once in a while, them runs do; and 
what chance would this feller stand? Suppose 
Jim asked him to pull a fall? He’d break his 
back sure! And he was telling Jennings he 
could ride, hey? I wonder what sort of a hawss 
he’s used to.” 

‘ ‘ I know, ’ ’ said Ben. ‘ 1 1 worked one of them 

[ 112 ] 




MAFT-AFRAID-OF-HIS-WARDROBE 


Western shows once that had an awful lot of 
riding in it. The horses they used can he bought 
at any fruit stand. A couple of cocoanut shells 
and a board out in the wings—Tunk-a-tunk! 
Tunk-a-tunk! Then the actor hollers Who-o-a 1 
and goes stampin’ on to the stage, brushing the 
dust off his clothes or hitting his pants-legs 
with a whip. That’s the sort of a rough rider 
Hale is.” 

“ You sure spoke an armful then! ” said Buck. 
“Montague usually figures on twenty or twenty- 
five runs a day. This Clarence guy fooled round 
so much that we only did five—one down the 
hill, one through water, and three dinky little 
gallops on level ground, ’most as exciting as a 
female riding school out for the afternoon. A 
whole day’s work wasted—all them extry men 
to pay; and it’s my bet that we’ll get make¬ 
overs on the entire bunch.” 

“Didn’t he show up pretty good in the other 
stuff?” asked Ben. 

“Good and rotten!” said Buck. “We made 
one scene, dismounted, after we’d ketched the 
hawss thief and was about to string him up. 
Four Flush was to pull his gun and prevent the 
lynching. I wish you could ’a’ seen the way 
he went after that forty-five—by slow freight! 
When he finally got it out of the holster he 
shoved it at us full arm-length instead of whip¬ 
ping it up from the hip for a quick cover. Hon¬ 
est, I could have loaded a cannon single-handed 
and shot him full of holes while he was getting 
[ 113 ] 







BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


that gun into action! It was awful! And all 
the time he was jimmy in’ round so he could look 
straight into the camera. I Ve seen some extry 
men that was pretty tol’able anxious to take a 
pretty picture, but he skinned ’em all! Jim 
had to keep bawling him out for that every few 
seconds, and we had to make the scene five 
times before he could forget there was a camera 
round.” 

“The boss will lose a lot of money on him,” 
said Ben. 

“It ain’t the firm’s bankroll that worries 
me,” said Buck; “but whenever I think of them 
elegant clothes—wasted—just naturally squan- ~ 
dered on a guy like that, I get kind of sore at 
Providence. Hale’s got as much use for them 
things as Baldy Bradley had for the presents 
his sister sent him from Boston after he had the 
fever that time. Baldy had quite a long spell 
o’ sickness, and it left him without a hair on 
his head and stone deaf.” 

“What did he get?” asked Ben. 

“A phonograph and a pair of silver hair¬ 
brushes!” said Buck. 


IV 

A few days later two men sat in the darkened 
projecting room, the tiny theater where moving 
pictures make their first and often their last 
appearance upon a screen. As soon as a scene 
[ 114 ] 




MAN-AFRAID-OF-HIS-WARDROBE 


is photographed the film goes to the developing 
room, and when the negative is dry it is flashed 
upon a screen and scrutinized for defects. At 
times the action of the players is at fault or the 
camera man has erred, hut more often the con¬ 
dition of the film itself presents a reason for 
rejection. Pinholes; tiny electric flashes gen¬ 
erated inside the camera, known and bitterly 
cursed under the name of static; blisters upon 
the emulsion side of the film; and the queer per¬ 
pendicular scratches called rainstorms—these 
are only a few of the unavoidable things that 
cost moving-picture concerns small fortunes in 
makeovers. 

One man passes upon all the film turned out 
by the various directors, and his word is final. 
A shake of the head may cancel days of hard 
work and entail additional expense of hundreds 
of dollars. On this particular day Bill Cart¬ 
wright, projecting-room expert and also the 
Western representative of the Titan Company, 
had summoned Jimmy Montague to the theater 
of judgment, there to witness, in a completed 
and assembled picture, the initial appearance of 
A. Lester Hale as a movie star. 

“Jim, I want you to look at this stuff,’’ said 
the expert. “The negatives are good, but the 
picture itself is hopeless. Your runs and chases 
haven’t got any life in ’em. You’re away over 
on your footage, and this fellow Hale is im¬ 
possible. Yes—worse than that! Even in the 
studio stuff he kills half the scenes he gets into. 

[ 115 ] 






/ 


BUCK PAR YIN AND THE MOVIES 


What’s the matter with him? Can’t you heat 
anything into his conceited head? ” 

Jimmy Montague sighed and took a fresh 
grip upon his cigar. The criticism was not un¬ 
expected. 

“I’ve bawled him out until my throat is 
sore,” said he wearily. “Of course the runs 
are dead! Why wouldn’t they be? Hale has 
to set the pace, and I can’t make him ride fast. 
I rehearse the studio scenes a dozen times with 
him and he’s all right in the rehearsals; but 
the minute the camera man begins to turn Hale 
starts to look pretty and pose, and works with 
one eye on the box. Give him a chance in the 
middle of the stage on a ‘close-up’ and he’ll eat 
a mile of film; and that’s why I’m over on the 
footage. I don’t know what to do about it, 
Bill.” 

“Pictures like these,” said Cartwright, “will 
hurt the company’s reputation if we put ’em 
out. The boss certainly made a fine bloomer 
when he gave this false alarm a contract! ’ ’ 

“I might write some scenarios that wouldn’t 
call for much but studio work on his part,” 
suggested Montague. 

“We couldn’t get away with it,” said the 
expert. “It’s action that people want, Jim. 
And don’t forget that this fellow’s stage repu¬ 
tation will make ’em expect to see him do the 
wild and woolly. A few years ago we faked the 
Western stuff and got by with it, but nowadays 
audiences are too well educated and too wise. 

[ 116 ] 




MAX-AFEAID-OF-HIS-WAEDEOBE 


They Ve been brought up on the real thing and 
they won’t stand for the bunk. Every com¬ 
pany out here has got real riders and ropers, 
and everybody will be looking for Hale to do 
the same sort of stuff—and he can’t! By the 
way, have you had any more trouble with him 
lately?” 

“Not since day before yesterday,” chuckled 
Jimmy. “He won’t speak to me! You remem¬ 
ber the fight I had with him in the bunkhouse 
set? He’d been beefing and kicking all day, 
insulting everybody right and left; and he 
finally got me sore. When we rehearsed the 
fight I pulled my punches the same as we always 
do; but when we made the picture I let one go 
through—bang on his chin. It was the only 
way I had of getting back at him. He walked 
off the side lines and it took me a long time to 
explain to him that once in a while a man had 
to take a real punch in order to register it on 
the film. 

“He said he was an actor and not a pugilist, 
and I had to promise to go easy in the fight 
scene. I did, and he had the nerve to start a 
haymaker for my jaw. I clinched and tore the 
shirt off his back.” 

“And well I know it!” growled Cartwright. 
“He put in a bill for ten dollars. I could buy 
a lot of shirts for that. We’re up against it, 
Jim! He’s got us on that contract and, unless 
he breaks it himself, I see a big loss in time and 
money. ’ ’ 


[ 117 ] 





BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


A long, thoughtful silence followed that re¬ 
mark. 

“Well,” said Montague at length, “stranger 
things than that have happened.” 

1 ‘ Than what ? ’’ demanded Cartwright. 

“Never mind,” said Montague. “Ask me 
no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. Now, as 
I understand it, you regard this Hale person as 
a total loss to the concern. Eh?” 

“Ab-so-lute-ly!” said Cartwright dismally. 
“He’s a ten-thousand-dollar joke, hut you and 
we won’t do any of the laughing. You can add 
to that all it costs to keep the company going, 
because these pictures won’t have any sale after 
they’re out of the release houses. They’re so 
much dead film.” 

“If he should see fit to quit us,” hazarded 
Montague, “could he get action on his contract? 
Sue us for damages—or anything like that?” 

“Not if he quits of his own accord,” said 
Cartwright. 

“Uh-huh!” grunted Montague thoughtfully. 
“Bill, I think I’ll go and do some authoring. 
I’ve got an idea that I might write a stunt pic¬ 
ture—oh, a lot of stunts, one in every scene. 
It ought to be a money-saver if it works. How 
much will you stand for?” 

“If you’re thinking about what I’m thinking 
about,” said the Western representative, “you 
can go as far as you like, and the company will 
be behind you in anything but murder in the 
[ 118 ] 




MAST-APRAID-OP-HIS-WAKDEOBE 


first degree. Ten thousand dollars is a lot of 
money. ’ ’ 

“So I’ve been told,” remarked Jimmy, “and 
it seems to me that a man who saves it ought to 
be entitled to salvage.’ 9 He took bis departure, 
chewing earnestly on an unlighted cigar. 

J imm y Montague did not go authoring; he 
went motoring instead, which, for a moving 
picture director, is much the same thing. 

All the world is truly a stage for those who 
ransack it for the scenery round which the flick¬ 
ering dramas are built. 

There are seasons of the year when deep 
running water is scarce in Southern California, 
but Jimmy Montague knew where to look; and 
in a rugged canon miles from Los Angeles he 
discovered a promising series of locations. 

That same evening Buck Parvin received 
sealed orders. 

“Buck,” said Montague, “do you remember 
where we made that Indian picture last spring 
—the place where the horses had to swim?” 

‘ 6 1 reckon I ’ll never forget it. I can feel that 
cold water yet! ’ ’ 

“Meet me there at one o’clock to-morrow 
afternoon. Put an old saddle on Teddy and 
lead him. Wear old clothes and take a change 
along—because you might get wet.” 

“Oho!” said Buck. “Lead Teddy, hey? Is 
Man-Afraid-of-His-Wardrobe going to be in 
this?” 

“Speaking as one human being to another 
[ 119 ] 






BUCK PARVIIT AXD THE MOVIES 


and in strict confidence/’ said the director, “he 
is. Away over his head!” Montague looked 
steadily at Buck for several seconds and then 
he winked—a slow, deliberate closing of the 
left eye. “Yes, Mr. Hale is going to be in it. 
For a starter he’ll swim the creek on Teddy and 
get shot off his back in about ten feet of ice 
water—with his boots and chaps on. Then he ’ll 
do a jump from the top of that great big rock. 
More ice water. Then we’ll make a close-up 
of him, stranded on a sandbar with only the 
end of his nose sticking out. Still more ice 
water. And then-” 

“Say, hold on!” interrupted Buck. “Are 
you trying to kid me or are you kidding your¬ 
self? You know Percy ain’t got no use for ice 
water—except on the side, as you might say; 
and this time of the year, with that snow up 
above and beginning to melt, a man might just 
as well be froze to death as chucked into that 
creek. He won’t go through with it.” 

“And then,” continued Montague—“if he 
lasts that far—he’ll do some fancy riding down 
the side of the canon. After that we can think 
up something else. Right offhand, I’d say that 
to-morrow is going to be his busy day.” 

“I wish you’d put the cards on the table,” 
said Buck. ‘ ‘ Ho you want to drownd this bird, 
or what? Because I’ma guy that can be trusted 
to go a long way for a friend.” 

“Buck,” said Montague in his professional 
tone, “I knew a man once—about your size and 
[ 120 ] 






MAN-AFEAID-OF-HIS-WAEDROBE 


complexion—who got a steady job with a direc¬ 
tor because he saw a lot of things and forgot 
about ’em afterward. Are you on!” 

“If that’s a promise,” said Buck, 4 ‘you can 
depend upon a loss of memory complete. You 
said something about this bird being shot off his 
hawss. As a favor to me I’d like to make that 
gunplay. ’ ’ 

“I thought I’d do it myself.” 

4 4 Please let me, ’ ’ urged Buck. 4 4 1 ain’t never 
shot a leadin’ man yet—and then there’s other 
reasons. Bemember yesterday—when I got my 
hand between his face and the camera for about 
a second, and how he beefed to you about it! 
When we got off the scene he tore into me again. 
Jim, that big hunk of uselessness called me a 
confounded, impertinent, insignificant, bow- 
legged supe! Yes—and worse than that. I 
may not look it, Jim, but I’m terrible sensitive. 
My feelings are easy hurt and my hot Southern 
blood boils mighty quick. I’d like to see myself 
in a picture shooting this Jasper.” 

44 Oh, very well!” said Montague. 44 And if 
you’re five minutes late, I’ll fine you a day’s 
pay—understand!” 

44 Huh! I’ll be there with my hair in a 
braid!” said Buck. 


[ 121 ] 







BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


V 

As the big studio touring car bummed swiftly 
along the foothill road Jimmy Montague, in the 
tonneau with A. Lester Hale, his valet and two 
suitcases, maintained a cheerful flow of con¬ 
versation, apparently unmindful of the some¬ 
what sulky silence of his star. 

“ There is really not the slightest danger 
in the world,’’ said Montague. “In the first 
place the horse can swim like a-” 

“But I understood you to say the water 
wasn’t deep! ’ ’ interrupted Hale. 

“Six or eight feet—a mere trifle!” said 
Jimmy. “You swim, of course?” 

“Not for several years,” said Hale uncom¬ 
fortably. ‘ ‘ Why wouldn’t it be better merely to 
suggest that scene without making the horse 
swim?” 

“We suggested too many things in the first 
picture,” said Montague, “and that was why 
Cartwright turned it down. Suggestion is all 
right on the stage, but in the movies people ex¬ 
pect realism. They won’t stand for anything 
else. We’ve got to pull some stunts in order 
to make this next picture stand up. This swim¬ 
ming stuff is easy. You know how a horse acts 
when he gets beyond his depth, don’t you?” 

“Not—not exactly,” said Hale. 

“Well, it practically amounts to the same 

[ 122 ] 





MAX-AFEAID-OF-HIS-WAEDEOBE 


tiling as walking on his hind legs. He’s feeling 
for bottom—see?—and kind of treading water. 
Soon as yon feel him going out from nnder yon 
take hold of the pommel with one hand and let 
him tow yon. Then, when yon’re almost across, 
Buck jumps out of the willows and fires once. 
That’s your cue to let go, throw up your hands 
and sink.” 

11 Sink!” ejaculated Hale. 

* 1 Just bob under for a second,” said Monta¬ 
gue reassuringly. 

“But why is it necessary for me to go under 
at all?” objected Hale. “Why wouldn’t it be 
much more effective for me to fall forward on 
the horse’s neck and let him bring me out—• 
wounded ? ’ ’ 

“Because it would crab the next scene,” said 
Jimmy glibly. ‘ 1 That shows you washed up on 
a sandbank, unconscious.” 

“But I don’t like the idea of going into the 
water with all these heavy clothes on,” per¬ 
sisted the leading man. 

“Of course they’ll get wet; but you can 
change right away,” said Montague. “That’s 
one reason why I loaned you my old chaps. 
They’ve been wet so many times that it won’t 
hurt ’em.” 

“I’m not worrying about your ratty old 
togs,” said Hale with a scornful glance down¬ 
ward. “As a boy I was subject to cramps.” 

“My dear fellow,” said Montague with acid 
sweetness, “surely you know I wouldn’t ask you 
[ 123 ] 








BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


to do anything I haven’t done myself. This is 
a very simple moving-picture stunt. You go 
under water for a second and the scene ends 
there. Buck throws you a rope and we pull 
you out. Why, when we put on the pirate pic¬ 
ture I walked the plank blindfolded and 
dropped forty feet into the ocean. 

“In another water picture I went head first 
off the yardarm of a vessel. They tossed me 
off the San Pedro Breakwater tied up in a sack, 
and I had to cut my way out before I could be¬ 
gin to swim. This thing I’m asking you to do is 
dead easy.” 

“Easy for you, maybe,” said Hale with a 
sneer. “I’m not a swimmer or a high diver.” 

Jimmy Montague’s face slightly reddened, 
but he replied quietly enough, and his very 
calmness would have carried a threat to a less 
self-centered and egotistical individual. 

“In the movies,” said he, “a man has to do 
almost everything—well.” 

By this time the automobile was climbing the 
canon road. On each side were towering walls, 
flecked with patches of brush. Below, in the 
willows, a swift mountain stream hurled itself 
over its rocky bed, swirling into deep green 
pools and racing over pebbly shallows. A cold 
wind ripped down the narrow canon, bringing 
a chilling hint of melting snow in the heights 
above. Hale shivered and drew his coat closer 
about him. 


[ 124 ] 




MAN-AFRAID-OF-HIS-WARDROBE 


As the road dipped away toward a ford Mon¬ 
tague signaled to the chauffeur. 

“We’ll get out here,” said he. 

It was a lonely spot, deep in the canon. There 
was no sound save the rushing cluck of the 
water and the thresh of the willows whipped by 
the keen breeze. Montague, carrying the tripod, 
led the way up the bank of the stream. Charlie 
Dupree, the camera man, came next, with his 
box and paraphernalia. Hale and his valet 
lagged in the rear. The chauffeur, to whom 
stunt pictures were no novelty, elected to take 
a nap in the tonneau. At times Jimmy Monta¬ 
gue, crashing through the brush, caught 
snatches of conversation behind him and smiled 
grimly. 

“It’s not legitimate work! . . . Confounded 
slapstick effects! . . . Too cold! . . . An artist 
is entitled to some consideration, even in mov¬ 
ing pictures.” 

Evidently Hale was pouring his troubles into 
a sympathetic ear, as attested by a low commis¬ 
erating mumble from the faithful James. 

In a bend of the stream the party halted, and 
Buck Parvin, sitting upon a rock and examining 
his battered forty-five-caliber revolver, gave 
them a noisy and cheerful greeting. 

4 4 Quite some swimming pool we Ve got here, ’ ’ 
said he. “I was just thinking if you didn’t 
show up pretty soon I’d take a dive for luck.” 

At the bend the stream was perhaps seventy- 
five feet wide. Shallow at the other bank, it 
[ 125 ] 






BUCK PARVIX AND THE MOVIES 


sloped away into deep water, where the current 
was scarcely perceptible. Hale looked down 
into the pool, dipped his fingers into the water 
and promptly entered a vigorous protest. 

“It's too cold!” said he. 

6 ‘Nonsense!” said Montague. “You’ll only 
be in the water a few seconds.” 

“Couldn’t you double me in this scene?” he 
asked anxiously. 

‘ ‘ Impossible! I can only double you in scenes 
where your face does not show clearly. You 
are so well known that any audience would spot 
the double in a second. . . . Charlie”—this to 
the camera man—“set your camera here. I 
want that stretch of sand on the other side. 
Shoot low, because I want as much water as I 
can get. It’s a clear day; so don’t open your 
lens too wide. Use your light meter for your 
aperture and time your shutter to it. ’ ’ 

“Well,” said Hale, “if you are really going 
to insist on this foolishness I suppose I must 
go through with it. You are responsible if any¬ 
thing happens. James, get my dry things out 
of the suitcases. You are a witness that I do 
this under protest.” 

“Yes, sir,” said James. “I am.” 

“Your horse is over there in the willows,” 
said Montague. “The water above is shallow 
—so you can cross there. When I give the word 
ride through that break in the brush on the 
other side and come into the water between the 
two white stones. You can leave the rest to 
[ 126 ] 




MAN-AFRAID-OF-HIS-WARDROBE 


Teddy—he’ll swim straight for the camera. 
Don’t try to stay in the saddle after yon get 
into deep water. Trail along and let Teddy 
tow yon—and when Bnck shoots let go. All I 
want yon to do is to go nnder water if only for 
a second; and yon’ll be so close to the bank that 
we can have yon ont in a jiffy. No mistakes 
on this—unless yon want to make it over.” 

“But we always make a scene twice!” said 
Charlie Dupree, and paused suddenly as Monta¬ 
gue ’s heel descended upon his toes. 

Charlie was an experienced camera man and 
he had seen many strange things in his time. 
He subsided, muttering: 

“What is this—a joke?” he growled as he 
fiddled with the shutter. 

Plainly it was no joke to A. Lester Hale, 
gingerly splashing across the shallow ford 
above the pool. Neither was it a joke to James, 
shaking out bath towels and fresh underwear 
with the troubled manner of one upon whom a 
great responsibility had been laid. It was evi¬ 
dent that James, like his master, feared the 
worst. 

Jimmy Montague and Buck Parvin, confer¬ 
ring in whispers, grinned at each other. 

“It’s no josh about that water being cold!” 
said Buck. “You ought to brought an oil-stove 
along to thaw him out afterward. ’ ’ 

“I don’t know how this will end,” said the 
director; “but back me up in anything I start.” 
[ 127 ] 






BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


‘‘Sure !’ 9 said Buck. “I’m after that steady 
job you was talking about.’’ 

The first time Montague gave the word Hale 
rode slowly down to the bank of the stream 
and stopped his horse to remind all present 
that he was working under strong protest. The 
second time he asked for additional instruc¬ 
tions ; but the third time he entered the water. 

‘ ‘ Come on, Teddy!’ 9 yelled Montague. ‘ 4 Good - 
horse! Come on!” 

He produced an apple. Teddy saw it and 
headed straight for the director, entirely disre¬ 
garding a strong nervous pull on the bit. Not 
for nothing had the horse played star parts in. 
dozens of film dramas. Hale’s face whitened 
as the icy water swirled about his knees. 

“O-o-h!” he gasped. “I—I can’t do it! I 
can’t! Tell the horse to go back! It’s—it’s too 
cold!” 

‘‘Come on with him, Teddy!” called Monta¬ 
gue; and Teddy having seen the apple, came 
on. 

Suddenly Hale felt the saddle sinking under 
him and the water rose to his shoulders. With 
a howl of fright, he threw himself forward, 
clutching blindly at the only portion of the horse 
still above water. One hand found Teddy’s left 
ear and fastened upon it with a desperate grip. 
The other one was tangled in the mane. 

‘ 4 What are you trying to do?” yelled Buck. 
i 4 Want to drownd that hawss? Leggo his ear, 
you fool, and give him a chance to swim!” 

[ 128 ] 




MAN-AFRAID-OF-HIS-WARDROBE 


Advice and insult went unheeded. Hale’s eyes 
popped out and his chin receded until it was all 
but invisible. His face froze into a perfect 
mask of terror. For once in his life he forgot 
he was being photographed. 

“Help!” he cried. “Help!” 

“Let go!” roared Montague. 

That was the last thing Hale meant to do, 
however. He tried to pull himself forward 
upon the horse’s head, and Teddy’s fore legs 
beat the air wildly as his nose disappeared un¬ 
der the water. 

“Rope him!” shouted Montague to Buck. 
“He’s drowning Teddy!” 

“I got something better than that,” replied 
Parvin; and whipping his revolver from the 
holster he leveled it and fired. At the crashing 
report Hale’s hands went high over his head, 
and with a bloodcurdling scream he sank from 
view. 

“He’s murdered! You’ve killed him!” 
shouted James, the faithful, jumping up and 
down on the bank. 

“Murdered your grandmother!” snarled 
Buck. “The wad must have hit him, that’s 
all.” 

“Don’t let that fool flunky get into the pic¬ 
ture!” yelled Dupree, making a fine photo¬ 
graph of a swimming horse and a few bubbles 
behind him. 

Jimmy Montague was the first to appreciate 
the gravity of the situation. With a reproach- 
[ 129 ] 






BUCK PARVIIT AND THE MOVIES 


ful look at Buck Parvin, the director stripped 
off his coat and plunged into the pool. After 
what seemed a long time he reappeared, his 
fingers twined in Hale’s long hair. 

“The rope—quick!” gasped Montague- 
“He’s hurt!” 

Buck drew them both to shore, and on a level 
stretch of sand Jimmy Montague applied first 
aid to the drowning. As he pumped vigorously 
at Hale’s arms he shot a question at Parvin. 

“What was in that gun—rock salt?” 

“ Nah! ” said Buck. 4 ‘ Just a little candlewax 
on the wad. Look here! ’ ’ He ripped open the 
silk shirt and laid his finger on a small red mark 
upon the chest. “That’s some shooting!” he 
whispered. “I nailed him when he was trying 
to climb up between Teddy’s ears. He ain’t 
hurt, Jim. He’s stalling with you. ’ ’ 

“Not on your life he ain’t stalling!” said 
Montague. “He’s on the level with it. You 
scared him almost to death! ’ ’ 

After a time Hale began to moan and toss his 
head from side to side. Jimmy Montague drew 
a relieved breath. 

“He’s all right now,” said he to the fright¬ 
ened James. “It was the shock that got him, 
and he didn’t swallow much water.” 

The leading man opened his eyes and stared 
about him wildly. Then he clutched his breast 
and groaned. 

“I’m shot through and through!” he sobbed. 
“Get a doctor—quick!” 

[ 130 ] 




MAX-AFKAID-OF-HIS-WARDROBE 


“Oh, rats!” said the unfeeling Montague. 
“It was only the wad from the blank cartridge 
that hit you.’ ’ 

“But I—I felt it. I feel it yet!” said Hale. 

“Never even put a hole in your shirt,” said 
Buck consolingly. ‘ ‘ Look and see. ’ ’ 

It took twenty minutes to convince Hale that 
he was in no danger of immediate death; when 
assured upon this point he consented to sit up, 
resting his head upon the shoulder of the faith¬ 
ful James. It was then that Jimmy Montague 
had an inspiration. 

“Take it easy for a while,” said he, “and 
then we’ll make the scene over. Your valet 
jumped into the picture and cloaked the action. 
Tough luck!’ 9 

“W-what?” Hale forgot himself to such an 
extent that he sat up without support. 

“ You’ll have to do it again,” said Montague. 
“Your valet here lost his head and-” 

“I’m to go into that water again?” Hale’s 
voice rose shrill with hysteria. “Risk my life 
for your fool picture? Not for anything in the 
world!” 

“But your contract calls for-” 

“What do I care about a contract?” sput¬ 
tered Hale. “You can’t hold me to it! I quit! 
I quit now! I’ve got a witness here!” 

“Yes, sir,” said James. “You have.” 

“Well,” said Buck Parvin, thumbing the 
cylinder of his forty-five, “I don’t know’s I 
blame you a darned bit. Too much is plenty!” 
[ 131 ] 






BUCK PAKVIH AND THE MOVIES 


“Jim,” said Bill Cartwright, “you’re the 
eighth wonder of the world! He says we can 
sue him if we want to, but he’ll never fill that 
contract. How did you do it f ” 

‘ 4 Easy! ’ ’ said Montague. “ It’s a poor direc¬ 
tor that can’t dig up a scenario to fit an emer¬ 
gency, Bill. But if you’re shy a stage cow- 
puncher you might give a real Westerner a job. 
I’ve put Buck on the payroll.” 


[ 132 ] 




WATER STUFF 


B UCK PAR VEST, moving-picture cow- 
puncher, arrayed in the conspicuous 
habiliments of his calling, sat on the 
steps outside the main building of the 
Titan Company and thrust forth his new boots 
for all the world to admire. Fashioned of the 
choicest materials, with the squarest of square 
toes and the highest of high heels, the midleg 
portions scroll-stitched in graceful and intricate 
designs, and surmounted by broad bands of 
glittering patent leather, they were, indeed, 
boots to challenge the eye and demand the re¬ 
spectful attention of the most casual observer. 

Since his promotion to a position on the 
weekly payroll at a salary that amazed him 
afresh every Saturday afternoon, Buck had 
been able to indulge his passion for expensive 
gauds and trappings. The new sombrero was 
a dream in gray beaver, the silk shirt a poem 
in Nile green; but the Kansas City boots were 
the very apple of Buck’s eye. They marked 
the floodtide of gratified ambition and made 
him one with leading men, champion broncho 
[ 133 ] 







BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


busters, street medicine fakers and proprietors 
of Wild West shows. 

Such boots are to be seen in shop windows 
in Cheyenne, Denver, Fort Worth, Oklahoma 
City and Las Vegas. They are seldom en¬ 
countered east of the Mississippi River, and 
nowhere are they common or likely to become 
so, for they cost a great deal more than a suit 
of ready-made clothes and something less than 
a good saddle. In this day of inflated food 
values those who can afford such luxurious foot- 
<wear are scarce. There are cheap imitations of 
course, but they are just that and nothing else, 
and serve but to make the genuine article more 
.desirable. 

For the further edification of the assembled 
extra people, Buck rolled a brown-paper cigar¬ 
ette, employing none but the fingers of his left 
hand—and those who do not believe this feat 
requires dexterity and practice should try it at 
their leisure. 

As he gave the flimsy cylinder a final twist 
and flourish Buck paused, eyes upturned and 
ear inclined toward an open window whence is¬ 
sued a mournful chant, pitched in a low, rum¬ 
bling key. The window looked out from the 
private office of James Montague, scenario au¬ 
thor, heavy actor and producing director, in 
whose narrow littered sanctum film dramas 
were born. 

Ben Leslie, the property man, slouched across 
[ 134 ] 




WATER STUFF 


the yard and Buck summoned him with a jerk 
of his head. 

“Some kicks, boy—some kicks!” said Leslie 
approvingly. “You didn’t find those new boots 
hanging on a bush, I’ll bet!” 

“Not so you could notice it,” said Buck with 
modesty. “Just got ’em out of the express of¬ 
fice—made to order. But that ain’t what I 
wanted you for. Listen here a minute and see 
if you can get this. 

“Many brave hearts are asleep in the deep; 

So beware! Be-e-e-e-ware! 

“What’s biting Jim now?” continued Buck, 
with a trace of anxiety in his tone. 

The property man, a lean, melancholy per¬ 
son of much assorted experience, given at times 
to economy in language, rose, hitched his trous¬ 
ers fore and aft and gravely performed the first 
steps of the dance known to musical comedy as 
the sailor’s hornpipe. 

6 ‘ Doggone it! ” sighed Buck. ‘‘ I had a hunch 
that was what ailed him. Some more of that 
rotten water stuff, eh ? It’s a pity Jim wouldn’t 
get a company of square-faced Swede sailors 
and mermaids and be done with it! 

i( For many a stormy wind shall blo-o-o-w 
Ere Ja-hack—comes home — again!” 

“He’s full of it this morning,” said Leslie. 
“Genius must be burning like a fire in a furni- 
[ 135 ] 







BUCK PARVIH AND THE MOVIES 


ture factory. Do you know what he’s doing, 
Buck! Jim is trying to warble himself into 
thinking that he’s the Clark Russell of the 
movie business; but he doesn’t know one end of 
a ship from the other. That’s temperament, 
son—temperament. ’ ’ 

“IJL-huh!” Buck shuddered slightly. “Let 
him sing his fool head off! Believe me, them 
songs about hounding billows and raging mains 
was never written by a guy with a weak stom¬ 
ach. Do you reckon Jim will hire that ratty 
old ship again and stake us all to some more 
seasickness?” 

“The Alden Bessef She’s already hired.” 

“And me a regular member of the company! ’’ 
groaned Buck. 

“Well, you would be an actor!” grinned the 
unfeeling Ben. 

‘ ‘ Listen! ’ ’ said Buck. “ If I have to go to sea 
any more in that old tub all the acting in the 
world won’t keep me from laying right down 
on the deck so soon as we get outside the San 
Pedro breakwater. After that I’ll he just the 
same as dead—only not near so comfortable. 
Montague makes me sick! Here he’s got all 
the dry land in California to work on—and he 
chooses the Pacific Ocean! You know, Ben, 
sometimes I think a movie director ain’t hu- ' 
man! ’ ’ 

“He’s got to give the public what it wants,” 
said Leslie, quoting Article I, Section 1, of the 
Showman’s Creed. “The other water picture 
[ 136 ] 





WATER STUFF 


is getting a lot of money. That’s the answer, 
old horse!” 

4 ‘If it gets a million it won’t break me even 
for what it done to my stomach,” said Buck 
morosely. “I’m a game guy, Ben—and you 
know it. Everybody knows it. I don’t mind 
taking fool chances with my life; but monkeying 
with my stomach is another proposition. Put 
me on ole Pieface and I’ll ride him as high and 
handsome as anybody. I’ll take as hard a fall 
as Jim Montague can frame up for me—and 
he’s framed some jimdandies! 

“When it comes to runs through brush or 
over boulders I can make all them Spring Street 
cowboys and film Cossacks quit like sheep in a 
blizzard—but salt water! Deep salt water! 
No, sir! You never heard of a guy named Buck 
that was a sailor. Me—I begin to get seasick 
as soon as I buy my steamer ticket. There’s 
something about the look and smell of the ocean 
that hits me right where I live. Green ain’t no 
healthy color for water, Ben—and you know it. 
I’ve come down some terrible steep hills for Jim 
Montague and never cheeped about it; but if 
he’s quit the cavalry and joined the navy I 
reckon I’ll have to ask for a change of venue.” 

‘ 4 Shucks! ’’ said the property man. “A little 
attack of seasickness is the healthiest thing a 
man can have. It tones up your whole system 
—acts like a tonic. ’ ’ 

“A tonic, eh!” sneered Buck. “Now you’ve 
said something! Doc Bowen gave Baldy Brad- 
[ 137 ] 






•BUCK PARVIIT AND THE MOVIES 


ley a tonic when lie was getting over the fever 
that time down in the Pecos country. It looked 
like harness oil, it smelled like a burnt boot, and 
it tasted like both of ’em, with a few other things 
thrown in to make it more difficult. Whenever 
it come time, to slip Baldy a jolt of the stuff it 
took five able-bodied men to turn the trick— 
three to set on him, one to hold his nose, and 
one to steer the spoon. 

“ ‘ Doc,’ says Baldy one day, ‘what in Sam 
Hill do you put in that stuff that makes it taste 
so bad?’ 

“ ‘Why, several things,’ says the doc, blowing 
out his double chin like a pelican. ‘That’s a 
tonic to build you up. I take it myself some- 
times.’ 

“ ‘Take it now, doc,’ says Baldy, ‘and keep 
it! Gimme the fever back again; I’d relish it 
more. ’ 

“And that’s your Uncle Buck on this seasick 
thing. If I’ve got to yo-heave-ho to be healthy 
I’d choose to remain an invalid like I am now. 
I’d rather be a well extry man and stay on dry 
land than play special seasick leads at a hun¬ 
dred a week. 

“Rocked in the cradle of the deep, 

I lay me down in peace to sleep.” 

‘‘Gosh!’’ said Buck. “You don’t reckon Jim 
figures to keep us on that water all night?” 

“Forget it!” said Ben Leslie, rising. “You 
[ 138 ] 




WATER STUFF 


might have a good part in this next picture.’’ 

Buck regarded his friend reproachfully 

“I had a good part in that last one,” he said; 
“but my breakfast got jealous of me and busted 
into the film. How can a man act when his 
stomach is acting, too?” 

“Don’t ask me!” said the property man. 
“Ask Jim—here he is.” 

Montague stood on the steps and surveyed 
the morning gathering of extra people with 
the cold appraising eye of the experienced di¬ 
rector—the connoisseur in features and types. 

Broken-down actors, with frayed collars and 
cuffs, trying to hide a pathetic eagerness behind 
a calm, professional exterior; gum-chewing 
girls in cheap finery, powdered and painted 
within an inch of their lives; young men smitten 
with an ambition to smirk before a camera and 
call themselves actors forever afterward; a 
sprinkling of the down-and-outs of both sexes— 
it was the typical motley assemblage. To some 
of them an appearance in a moving picture was 
nothing more than a joke or a new experience; 
to others it meant three dollars a day and bread 
and butter. 

“You girl on the end—with the green feath¬ 
ers!” said Montague briskly. “Can you 
swim?” 

The young woman laughed loudly and flirted 
her plumes. 

4 4 Swim! ’ ’ she answered. 4 ‘ Well, I should say 
not! I’m an actress, Mr. Montague. I was 
[ 139 ] 






BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


with the "Worldwide and the Transcontinental 
people; and the-” 

‘ ‘ Good night! ’’ said Jimmy. ‘ 4 Nothing doing 
if yon can’t swim.” 

He descended to pass among the applicants 
and the line shifted nneasily. 

“Water stuff! Water stuff!” the whisper 
ran. 

i ‘Well, what do you know about that!” de¬ 
manded the young woman with the green feath¬ 
ers. “ There was a time in this business when 
talent got you something, but now they don’t 
use nothing but acrobats! ’ ’ And by the man¬ 
ner in which she glared at Montague’s back it 
was plain that she did not hold him guiltless 
of this decadence in art. 

Slowly the line of applicants melted away. 

‘ 4 Nothing but swimmers this morning!” said 
Montague. Some of the young men qualified 
and were engaged. ‘ ‘ I must have more women, ’ 9 
muttered the director. ‘ ‘ How about you ? ’ ’ 

Montague paused before a girl who sat twist¬ 
ing a handkerchief nervously between her fin¬ 
gers. Her cheap blue serge skirt was shiny at 
the seams, her tan shoes were run down at the 
heels and her hat was of the obsolete peach- 
basket variety. There was a frightened look 
in her brown eyes as she raised them. 

“Can you swim, kid?” asked Montague not 
unkindly. 

“I—yes, sir,” stammered the girl. 

‘ ‘ Good! ’ ’ said Jimmy. ‘ ‘ Ever had any expe- 
[ 140 ] 





WATER STUFF 


rience in pictures? No? Well, that doesn’t 
make much difference. Be at the electric depot 
at six o’clock next Thursday morning. Bring 
along a change of clothes and some towels. You 
get five dollars for the water stunt. What’s 
your name?” 

“Jennie Lee.” 

“All right, Jennie. Go to the office and have 
them fill out a card for you. That’s the way 
we keep in touch with our extra people; and 
when we need you again we can notify you.” 

‘ 1 Thank you, sir, ’ ’ said the girl as she moved 
away. 

“Scared stiff!” thought Montague as he 
looked after her. “Little shopgirl or some¬ 
thing. Not much like the rest of these actresses. 
A fine type and she ’ll photograph well. Pretty 
thin, but she’s got nice eyes.” 

A few moments later Buck Parvin, sunk in 
fathomless melancholy, became aware that a 
young woman was addressing him. 

“Excuse me, sir,” and the face under the 
peach-basket hat flushed crimson, “but do you 
know whether I shall be expected to bring a 
bathing suit?” 

“Huh? What’s that?” Buck looked up, and 
what he saw prompted him to rise and remove 
his sombrero. 

“I’m sorry, miss,” said he, “but I don’t 
know any more about this next picture than 
the man in the moon. If you’ll wait I’ll find out 
for you.” 


[ 141 ] 






BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


He was back again almost instantly. 

4 ‘Yon’ll want bloomers, bnt no skirt. The 
rest of the stuff will be furnished by the com¬ 
pany. It’s a costume piece. Reckon you’re 
kind of new at this business, ain’t you?” 

“Yes, sir. I thought perhaps you could tell 
me what I should be expected to do.” 

Buck laughed. 

“Nobody knows that but the director,” he 
said. “He’ll tell you in plenty of time. Say, 
do you ever get seasick?” 

“I—I don’t know,” said the girl. “I’ve 
never been on the ocean. ’ ’ 

“Gee, but you’re lucky!” said Buck. 


II 

Jack La Rue, leading man of the Titan Com¬ 
pany and, as such, privileged to ask questions 
and annoy directors, insinuated himself into 
Jimmy Montague’s private office, where he 
found that capable person perspiring over a 
list of properties for the new picture. 

“Oakum; red-fire; smoke-pots,” read La Rue 
over Montague’s shoulder. “What are you 
framing up for us now, James? Something 
tough, I suppose.” 

“No,” said Jimmy, intent upon his task. 
“This one is going to be dead easy.” 

La Rue sniffed audibly. 

“ Yeh! ” said he. ‘ ‘ All your pictures are dead 
[ 142 ] 




WATER STUFF 


easy—to hear you tell it. That Mexican war 
thing, for instance. That was going to be a 
cinch; no rough stuff, no stunts at all—straight 
acting. I had to jump off the top of a ’dobe 
house, ride down the side of a cliff, swim a river 
in all my clothes, and do an Alexander Salvini 
out of a window into a brushpile. I’ve been 
picking cactus spines out of myself ever since. 
Heaven is my witness, Jim Montague, never 
again will I jump into a brushpile head first 
without looking to see what’s in it!” 

“Always kicking!” said Montague pleas¬ 
antly. “You wouldn’t he a great actor if you 
couldn’t roar at the director every few days. 
I suppose I planted that cactus in the brushpile 
for your especial benefit!” 

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” said the lead¬ 
ing man. “But, come, what’s the new stunt to 
be ? You can’t sidetrack me with an argument. ’ ’ 
“Another water picture—and a bird, if I do 
say it as shouldn’t! I’m going to pull some¬ 
thing new—something that hasn’t been done 
before—a fire on a ship at sea.” 

“You don’t call that new, do you?” demanded 
the actor. “It’s been done to death and nobody 
ever got away with it. ’ ’ 

“It was done with miniatures,” said Monta¬ 
gue sternly, ‘ 1 and that’s the reason the pictures 
were frosts. People are on to that fake stuff, 
Jack. You can’t build a boat four feet long 
and burn her in a mudpuddle and fool anybody 
into thinking she’s a regular ship. It would 
[ 143 ] 








BUCK PARVIH AKD THE MOVIES 


go once, but not now. Audiences are too wise 
for miniatures and the magic-lantern stuff. 
They want tbe real thing. I’ll have a real ship 
*—a real ocean ” 

“You won’t have a real fire though. How 
will you get the effect of one?” 

“You should worry about my effects!” 
snapped Montague angrily. “Smoke-pots all 
over the place—in the rigging and on deck. 
For the flame we’ll touch off a lot of oakum on 
sheets of galvanized iron. That’ll give us a 
real blaze all along the deck line. Red fire for 
aglow—and there you are! A fire effect? I’ll 
get one that will knock their eyes out! The 
old Alden Besse will look as if she was burning 
from stem to gudgeon. Can’t you see what a 
background that will make for the people as 
they jump overboard? Can’t you see that thick 
smoke rolling up, and the flames shooting along 
the rail, and the reflection in the water, 
and-” 

“Oh, that’s it!” interrupted La Rue. “I 
jump overboard, do I?” 

Montague paused, his enthusiasm suddenly 
chilled. He drew a long breath through his 
nose. 

“Say,” drawled Montague at last, “it must 
be awful to hate yourself the way you do! 
You’re the whole works round this place, ain’t 
you? Nobody else counts at all! Here I sweat 
blood and dope out a really great picture— 
something original and startling—something 
[ 144 ] 




WATER STUFF 


that all these other directors will try to copy— 
and I can’t even tell yon abont it! Can’t get 
a ripple of enthusiasm out of my leading man! 
His little bit is all that interests him!” 

“But I jump, do I?” persisted La Rue, who 
was a young man of few ideas and direct 
methods. 

Montague threw up both hands in token of 
surrender. 

“Yes—confound it—you jump! You’re the 
captain of an emigrant ship back in the fifties, 
bound round the Horn to California. You fall 
in love with one of the cabin passengers—that’s 
Myrtle. Fire in the hold. Women and children 
first—and all that sort of thing. Not enough 
boats. Life raft is put over the side, but breaks, 
loose and drifts away. That’s where the jump¬ 
ing comes in. Myrtle in her cabin, overcome by 
smoke. You rescue her—a studio scene, of 
course—run to the rail and do a Brodie with 
her in your arms—the last two people off the 
ship. Then you swim straight into the camera, 
and-” 

“Just a second!” said La Rue. “You’ve got 
a great picture there, Jim—a bully picture; 
but don’t forget that the old Besse stands up 
out of the water like a church. It’s a long jump 
from her rail. Doing it single would be easy, 
but I’m not stuck on trying it with a woman in 
my arms. Myrtle is no featherweight, you 
know; and if she overbalances me it ’ll look rot¬ 
ten in the film. Why can’t I throw her over- 
[ 145 ] 






BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


board and jump after her—or else let her down 
with a rope! It seems to me-” 

i ‘Nothing of the sort !’ 9 Montague burst into 
a sudden rage. ‘ ‘ Who ’s running this company ! 
You’ll jump with her in your arms— in your 
arms! Do you understand! I’ve listened to 
all the kicking that I’m going to take from you, 
La Rue! The next time you try to edit a sce¬ 
nario for me I’ll-” 

“Oh, all right—if that’s the way you feel 
about it! ” said the leading man as he reached 
for the doorknob. ‘ ‘ Have it your own way; but 
I was thinking- 99 

“What with!” rasped Montague. “Who’s 
paying you to think! You’re an actor—a great 
actor—and that lets you out. Be a good fellow 
and beat it, Jack! Can’t you see that I’ve got 
work to do! ” 

Buck Parvin chose this inauspicious moment 
to ask a favor. He creaked into the room, grin¬ 
ning ingratiatingly and trifling with the brim of 
his sombrero. 

“Well!” said Montague gruffly. “What do 
you want! ’ ’ 

“Jim,” said he, “my health—it ain’t been 
very well lately. I may not look it, but I’m a 
sick man. This studio stuff is breaking me 
down. I been used to the open air, and I-” 

“What you need,” said Montague, without 
looking up, “is a little sea trip. I’m writing 
you a nice fat part in the next picture. You’re 
going to be the first mate of the Alden Besse.” 

[ 146 ] 




WATER STUFF 


4 ‘But, Jim,” expostulated the unhappy Buck, 
“you know how sick I got the other time! I 
can’t do no acting on the water. If you had my; 
stomach-” 

“I’d he an ostrich!” finished Montague. 
“You’re almost as much of a nuisance as Jack 
La Rue. On your way before I bounce a paper¬ 
weight off your head! ’ ’ 

“And you won’t let me off?” 

“Certainly not. What do you think I pay; 
you thirty dollars a week for?” 

Buck grunted and moved toward the door. 
There he faced about and emptied the locker of 
its last despairing shot. 

“ If I must, I must! ’ ’ said he dolefully. ‘ ‘ But 
listen to reason, Jim, and don’t cast me for a 
first mate. Write in a part for a corpse and let 
me play that. I won’t need no rehearsing at 
all!” 


ni 

The good ship Alden Besse rocked at her 
moorings, groaning and sighing as she lifted 
with the rush of the tide. She groaned because 
she was very old, and she sighed because her 
hull was deeply incrusted with the barnacles of 
other days, which tore the moving water into 
tiny ripples, producing a low, hissing sound. 

Built by honest but shortsighted men who had 
no vision of steam, the Alden Besse was paying 
the penalty imposed on archaism by an age of 
[ 147 ] 







BUCK PARVHST AND THE MOVIES 


progress and invention. The world had moved 
on and left her behind. She had outlived her 
pride; but her too-solid construction forced her 
to linger beyond her day—a relic of the van¬ 
ished period when American clipper ships 
spread their sails to every wind that blew across 
the Seven Seas. 

Hongkong and Canton knew her well in the 
sixties and the seventies, when she was new and 
listed as one of the fast Cape Horners. Rich 
cargoes were her portion in those days—tea, 
silks and spices for the New York market— 
and she poured gold into the coffers of her own¬ 
ers. Then progress dealt her the first blow. 
The Clyde-built iron barks invaded the Orient 
and the wooden clipper ships were forced to 
fight for a share of the trade. They could no 
longer pick and choose. A few years of fierce 
competition ushered in the tramp cargo steam¬ 
ers, with their lower freight rates, superior 
speed and greater tonnage; and the Alden 
Besse, together with all other sailing ships,' 
faced the beginning of the end. 

She loafed about the Far Eastern ports for 
several months before she fell into the hands 
of the Japanese Government, which reenforced 
her teak with an armor-belt of oak timbers, 
mounted guns on her deck, and made of her a 
naval training ship. 

It was an easy berth, but it could not last. 
The old order changed—wooden ships-of-war 
gave place to swift steel cruisers and the stick- 
[ 148 ] 




WATER STUFF 


and-string navies of the world became obsolete. 
Japan followed the lead of other nations and 
the Alden Besse was sold for a song. 

She next appeared on the other side of the 
Pacific, where she was engaged in the sugar 
trade, plying between Honolulu and San Fran¬ 
cisco. Again steam drove her out and she 
dipped into the South Seas, trafficking in copra, 
cocoanut fiber, vanilla and coffee. She became 
a sort of maritime panhandler, haunting strange 
ports, thankful for small favors and bartering 
her self-respect for a pittance. At lengthening 
intervals she crept through the Golden Gate, 
dirty and dingy, and smelling to Heaven of 
mixed cargoes. Her last voyage brought her 
to San Pedro Harbor, where she was sold for 
dock charges—an ignominious ending of a long 
career. 

For months the old ship lay at her moorings, 
deserted save by the watchman, stripped of her 
sails and most of her fittings—a sorry spectacle, 
at which the steam craft of the harbor hooted 
in derision. Useless in any sort of coastwise 
trade and valueless except for her solid timbers, 
the Alden Besse was doomed to destruction; 
but progress, having ruined her, intervened to 
save her from this final shame. 

There came a keen-eyed young man—a direc¬ 
tor in the employ of a moving-picture company. 
He had a scenario that demanded a ship—and 
a ship he would have. He saw the Alden Besse 
[ 149 ] 









BUCK PARVIK AKD THE MOVIES 


and fell in love with her stately lines and tower¬ 
ing spars. 

‘ ‘ Just the ticket! ’ ’ said he. ‘‘1 ’ll rent her by 
the day, put a couple of cameras aboard and 
stage this picture right.” 

“Not the All-done Besse? 9 ’ said the seafaring 
men. “Why, that old tub ain’t got no sails!” 

‘ ‘ That’s a mere matter of detail. I can hire 
a tug and have her towed to sea.” 

i 1 She ’ll tow like a brick house! There’s tons 
of barnacles on her bottom. ’ ’ 

“The barnacles,” said the director, “will 
not show in the picture.” 

“There’s no ballast in her. She’s high out 
of the water and as light as a feather. She’ll 
roll something awful!” 

‘ 6 Let her roll! ’ ’ said the young man calmly. 

The seafarers abandoned the landlubber to 
his lunacy and went away shaking their heads; 
but, in spite of pessimistic prophecies along 
the waterfront, the old ship’s first film appear¬ 
ance proved a tremendous success, artistically 
as well as financially. It was something new 
and a movie audience dearly loves a novelty. 

Other directors, quick to see possibilities in 
the Alden Besse, besought their scenario edi¬ 
tors for sea stories, and the venerable clipper 
became the marine arm of the movie industry 
—a piece of renting property worth owning. 

For a time pirate pictures were all the rage, 
and the Alden Besse carried more buccaneers 
than ever sailed the Spanish Main. On her 
[ 150 ] 




WATER STUFF 


hitherto respectable decks scenes of mortal com. 
bat were enacted. Cutlasses flashed along the 
rail and ancient firelocks spat from the rigging, 
Blindfolded prisoners bravely walked the plank, 
prodded thereto by inhuman captors with 
rings in their ears and daggers in their teeth. 
Beautiful maidens were rescued at risk of life 
and limb—or, failing in this, came at last to 
love the pirate chief and reform him. 

Then mutiny upon the high seas engaged the 
attention of the scenario departments. The 
cutlass gave way to the marline-spike and the 
firelock to the bulldog revolver. Cruel captains 
were dealt with according to their deserts and 
bucko mates reaped the rewards of demerit. 
At the beck and call of many producing direc¬ 
tors the Alden Besse led a busy life, cutting 
strange capers in her old age. 

On this particular morning she stared down 
coldly on a laughing, chattering crowd that ad¬ 
vanced along the wharf. James Montague was 
in the van, flanked on each side by a camera ex¬ 
pert. 

4 'Bully light to-day!” said the director, 
squinting at the sun. 

"Yep!” said Charlie Dupree, one of the cam¬ 
era men. "Better not waste any of it. Where 
do we set up first?” 

"Right here on the wharf. Cut in the gang¬ 
plank and as much of the ship as you can get. 
Look out for your background and don't get any 
buildings in it, because this is supposed to be 
[ 151 ] 










BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


Glasgow or Liverpool. Departure of the emi¬ 
grant ship. Weeping and wailing—and all that 
sort of stuff. Affecting farewells on the pier.” 

‘ 1 1 get you, ’’ said Dupree. ‘ ‘ Cast Buck Par- 
vin for an emigrant. He and that girl he’s 
picked up are about the saddest things in the 
bunch. He was grouching all the way down in 
the car.” 

4 ‘Huh! Buck thinks he’s going to be sea¬ 
sick,” said Montague. “Now, then, all you ex¬ 
tra people, hop aboard and get made up. No 
time to lose!” 

“Women dress in the cabin and men on the 
deck!” bawled Jennings, Montague’s assistant. 
“Hustle, now!” As a production The Emi¬ 
grant Ship was an ambitious undertaking, re¬ 
quiring seventy extra people besides the regu¬ 
lar members of the company and the entire 
working force of the Titan studio. 

Over one hundred strong, men and women 
and laughing girls swarmed up the gangplank; 
and the decks resounded to the swift tapping of 
high-heeled shoes and the joyful wdioops of the 
youthful extra men, who regarded the entire 
expedition as a lark. “They’ll be singing an¬ 
other tune before long!” Thus Buck Parvin 
darkly, lagging in the extreme rear with Jennie 
Lee. 

“Is the water very deep—where we swim, I 
mean ? ’ ’ asked the girl. 

“Moving-picture actors,” said Buck, “ain’t 
got no regular swimming places like other folks. 

[ 152 ] 




WATEB STUFF 


We hit the water wherever the director says. 
It wouldn’t surprise me none if Jim Montague 
heaved us all overboard a couple of miles out to 
sea and made us swim ashore. He ain’t got no 
more consideration for an actor’s feelings than 
a billy-goat. Once he made me—why, hello! 
You ain’t getting sick already, are you?” 

“No,” said the girl quickly. “No, I’m all 
right, Mr. Parvin.” 

“You look kind of white round the mouth,” 
said Buck critically. “Does your stomach feel 
sort of restlesslike ? That’s the way it starts 
with me.” 

“No, it isn’t that; only—only I’m afraid I 
can’t swim very far. I never tried it, and-” 

“Oh, I was just kidding about that,” said 
Buck. ‘ ‘ It ’ll he a short swim; they always are 
—just a flash in the water and out again.” 

“Perhaps I ought to tell the director. What 
shall I do, Mr. Parvin?” 

“Do nothing!” advised Buck. “If you tell 
Jim he’ll give you a bawling out. What he 
don’t know won’t hurt him. And say, I wisht 
you’d call me Buck. They all do—it’s shorter. ’ ’ 

“But Buck is such a queer name.” 

“Hush! I’ve got a queerer one. My mother 
named me Rollo; but the old man, he tacked on 
the Buchanan—to take the curse off, I reckon. 
Rollo! Ain’t that a noble name for a full- 
grown man ? ’ ’ 

Montague stood at the gangplank counting 
noses. His quick eye noted several things and 
[ 153 ] 








BUCK PAR YIN - AND THE MOVIES 


he saluted the stragglers with appropriate re¬ 
marks. 

1 1 Don’t let that film cowboy scare you, Jen¬ 
nie !” said he. “The trouble with him is that 
he’s opposed to water in any form. The only 
people who are ever seasick are the ones who 
are afraid they’re going to be. Hurry along 
and get ready! ... You, Buck! Didn’t I tell 
you to dress a first mate? What sort of boots 
are those for a sailor to wear?” 

Buck halted with a conscious downward 
glance. In order that no part of their glory 
might be wasted he was wearing his treasures 
with the trousers stuffed into the stiff, stitched 
tops. 

“What have you got against these boots?” 
demanded Parvin, glaring at the director. 
“They cost me twenty-seven dollars and ex¬ 
press charges from K. C., Missoury. Made to 
order! No first mate ever had a better pair— 
you can win a bet on that! ’ ’ 

“Cowpuncher boots—at sea?” howled Mon¬ 
tague. “Why, man, those high heels will regis¬ 
ter a mile away! Get some shoes—confound 
you! What do you want to do—burlesque this 
picture ? ’ ’ 

Buck passed up the gangplank, muttering 
mutinously. He sat down on a spare spar 
lashed in the scuppers and examined the boots 
carefully. No—he would not discard them—di¬ 
rector or no director. He would compromise 
by drawing the trousers down over the gorgeous 
[ 154 ] 




WATER STUFF 


tops. As lie was about to offer this sop to au¬ 
thority a passing tug set the Alden Besse to 
bobbing merrily up and down, and from that 
very moment boots and all other professional 
considerations passed out of Buck Parvin’s 
mind. 

Later, when he was prone upon the deck, 
spent and empty, his head pillowed upon his 
arms, he heard as from a great distance the 
voice of James Montague commanding him to 
come and be a first mate, a man, a mouse, or a 
long-tailed rat; but Buck was beyond insult, and 
the director went away, trailing lurid remarks 
behind him. 

“Buck’s a quitter—that’s what he is!” said 
Montague to Ben Leslie. 

“Oh, no, he ain’t!” said the property man. 
“You can’t quit until you’ve started—and Buck 
ain’t going to start.” 


IV 

At three o’clock in the afternoon a calm fell 
on the deck of the Alden Besse , while Jimmy 
Montague, hoarse and hatless, his shirtsleeves 
rolled up to his elbows, conferred with his as¬ 
sistant, checking up the amount of work ac¬ 
complished. The old clipper, just outside the 
breakwater and in tow of a tug, heaved and 
tossed to the long, oily groundswells that shoul- 
[ 155 ] 





BUCK PARVIIT AND THE MOVIES 


dered in from the Pacific, and her aged rigging 
creaked dismally with every plunge. 

It had been a lively day on the deep. Monta¬ 
gue, mindful of his enlarged payroll and anx¬ 
ious to complete the water stuff in one day, 
drove the company at top speed, scene following 
scene with bewildering rapidity. The extra peo¬ 
ple, herded here and there like sheep and used 
as a human background for the principals in 
the cast, were given no time in which to analyze 
physical sensations. Two cameras clicked con¬ 
stantly—a precaution against makeovers—and 
while Montague rehearsed and directed one 
scene Jennings busied himself preparing the 
next. 

“Pretty fast work, Jim!” said the assistant, 
consulting his memorandum book. 

“Not so bad!” said Montague, wiping his 
brow. “That’s about all of the deck stuff, I 
guess. Flag the captain of the tug and have 
him take us inside the breakwater. We’ll want 
a smooth sea for the swimmers. Tell the people 
who are going into the water that they can take 
off their shoes—no use in spoiling ’em. This 
stunt is just a quick flash overboard, and the 
stockings won’t register. They’ll be able to 
swim better without their shoes, too. Where’s 
Ben f I want to see him. ’ ’ 

The property man hoisted himself out of the 
companionway, imperturbable as ever, hitched 
his trousers fore and aft in true nautical style, 
and came to a rigid salute. 

[ 156 ] 





WATER STUFF 


61 Got the smoke-pots in the rigging, Ben ?’ 9 

“ Aye aye, skipper V 9 

“Oakum ready V 9 

“All it needs is the match. When do we pull 
the big smudge V 9 

“As soon as we get inside. Listen now! I’m 
going to cut in the stern of the ship for the 
jumps and I’ll want plenty of smoke, but not 
enough to hide the people as they come to the 
rail. ’ ’ 

“That’s easy. The wind is off shore.” 

“Turn loose a little of the oakum where the 
ship is cut down on the side-” 

“The waist, skipper—the waist!” corrected 
Leslie. 

“All right—the waist. A little fire there, but 
not much—just enough to make a showing. 
Touch off the smoke-pots on the rear mast-” 

“Holy sailor!” ejaculated Ben. “The miz¬ 
zenmast, Jim! Be technical, can’t you?” 

“Never you mind the technicalities!” said 
Montague. “You give me the sort of a fire ef¬ 
fect I want and let it go at that. Then, after the 
jumps, we ’ll go still farther away with the tug, 
so we can cut in the whole ship; then turn loose 
the whole works—smoke-pots, oakum, red-fire 
and all. Give her everything you’ve got; and 
see that none of your stooges show their heads 
over the rail. The Alden Besse is supposed to 
be deserted by that time. Do you get me!” 

“Absolutely! Leave it to me and I’ll smoke 
her up to the queen’s taste.” 

[ 157 ] 











BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


44 How’s the quitter getting along V 9 asked 
Montague. 

“Better,” said Ben. “He was able to cuss 
me the last time I poked him up. Pretty soft 
for Buck! That pretty little new girl is sitting 
beside him and bolding a cold towel on bis 
bead.” 

“Humph!” grunted Montague. “He’s not 
game —that’s what ails him! Now there’s little 
Dupree—seasick as a dog all day—but he never 
missed a turn of the crank except when he had 
to run to the rail.” 

At the same moment Buck was detailing his 
symptoms for the benefit of the faithful Jennie. 

“I’ve got a fierce headache and black spots 
floating in front of my eyes,” said the stricken 
one, essaying to sit up. “My stomach feels like 
somebody had used it to churn sour milk in 
and there’s a dark green taste in my mouth. 
I’ve got palpitation of the heart and I’m as 
weak as a cat; but otherwise there ain’t a thing 
the matter with me. I reckon I ’ll live till night, 
at least. It was mighty nice of you to stick 
round the way you did. I won’t forget it; and 
if you’re ever seasick-” 

4 4 Oh, but I was—this morning. ’ ’ 

44 And went on working just the same?” cried 
Buck. 4 4 Well, they say that a woman can stand 
more suffering than a man. I reckon it’s true. 
Doc Bowen used to say-” 

44 Come on, you swimmers! Get ready!” 

4 4 That’s Jennings, ’ ’ said Buck. 4 4 Better run 

[ 158 ] 






WATER STUFF 


along and—why, see here, sister, what’s the 
matter? You ain’t scared, are you?” 

“I—I’m afraid I am,” quavered the girl. 
6 ‘ I didn’t think it would he like this—away out 
on the ocean! ’ ’ 

4 4 But you said you could swim! ’ ’ 

“Only a little—and I’ve nevef been in deep 
water in my life. It—it frightens me!” 

4 6 Oh, shucks! There’s nothing to be scared 
of. There’ll be somebody handy to grab you 
if anything goes wrong. Once you get wet all 
over, you won’t notice it at all.” 

“And you’re sure there’ll be somebody 
there?” 

“Why, of course! Whoever heard of a mov¬ 
ing-picture actor getting drownded!” 

The girl went away reluctantly, leaving Buck 
to speculate upon the inconsistencies of fem¬ 
inine nature. 

“She’s seasick and never lets a yip out of 
her,” thought he; “but the notion of getting 
wet stampedes her plumb off the reservation! 
Women are too various for me—I give ’em 
up!” 

V 

Before the tug drew alongside to receive the 
director and the camera men, Montague ad¬ 
dressed the entire company from the after deck¬ 
house of the Alden Besse, Buck being the only 
absentee. 


[ 159 ] 









BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


“Now this is the action,” said Jimmy—“and 
pay attention to me, because I haven’t got time 
to repeat it. We will first make the boats row¬ 
ing away from the ship. Yon folks who were 
in the deck struggles and the launching scenes, 
take the same places in the boats that you had 
before—dressed the same way too. The men 
at the oars will pull over toward the tug and 
across the sidelines. Be careful you don’t drift 
back into the picture. As you leave the ship 
be looking back at her—all of you—and register 
grief—like this.” 

Here Montague registered grief—a very sim¬ 
ple matter when one knows how. 

“You women, wring your hands and cry. 
Here’s a ship—burning up at sea. It’s a terri¬ 
ble thing! All your friends and loved ones are 
left on her; you may never see ’em again. Try 
to get something of that fear into the picture 
—and if I catch you looking at the cameras it ’ll 
cost you a day’s pay! You look at the ship— 
and keep on looking at her until you’re over 
the sidelines. 

“Next we’ll do the lifer aft, drifting away 
from the side. Jennings, you coach ’em in the 
action—it’s only about ten feet or so. 

“Now, then, here’s the big stunt of the day! 
Where are all those swimmers? Come down 
here in front so I can see you. This water scene 
won’t run much over thirty feet in all, but it’s 
the most important one in the picture and I 
don’t want any boneheads or smart Alecks 
[ 160 ] 




WATER STUFF 


crumbing it up for me—remember that! The 
liferaft will be over between the tug and the 
ship. When you hear me holler Go! you’re to 
start jumping. Go overboard from the waist 
there—it’s lower. Don’t all jump at once—two 
or three at a time; and keep on coming. When 
I say jump I mean jump! I don’t want any 
exhibition dives or posing on the rail—no head¬ 
first stuff. This ship is supposed to be red hot 
and you’re getting off of her as quick as you 
can. Never mind making it pretty—you hit the 
water feet first. 

“I want a couple of girls to register fear—» 
you, Anderson; and you, Lee. When you climb 
on the rail look down and hesitate—sort of 
shrink back; make it look as if you were afraid. 
Then jump. And another thing—when you get 
into the water cut out the fancy swimming. No 
showing off and no skylarking. You boys, re¬ 
member that! Tear out for the raft as if your 
lives depended on getting there in a hurry. 
That’s all for you extra people.” 

“And when do I jump?” asked Jack La Rue. 

“I’m getting round to you now. At the be¬ 
ginning of the jumping scene, Jack, I want you 
to establish yourself at the rail there—up above 
the waist. Give a quick look round and then 
register that you’ve just missed Myrtle. Rush 
over and duck behind that little coop where the 
stairs go down.” 

Here Ben Leslie emitted a sepulchral groan 
and took his head in his hands. 

[ 161 ] 










BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


“ Myrtle, you be waiting for Jack there. 
When the extra people are all in the water I’ll 
give you a signal, Jack, and you carry Myrtle 
to the rail—the same place where you estab¬ 
lished yourself before. Register exhaustion—■ 
youVe been breathing smoke, remember. Ben, 
I want you to plant one of your stooges in that 
coop with a couple of smoke-pots, so that we’ll 
get the effect of Jack coming through the thick¬ 
est of it.” 

“Aye, aye, commodore!” said Leslie. “But 
don’t call it a coop. That’s the after com¬ 
panion-hatch. ’ ’ 

“Say, where do I jump from?” demanded La 
Rue. 

“From the rail up above—there’ll be less 
smoke there.” 

“And farther to go before I hit the water!” 
grumbled the leading man. And he scowled 
at the lovely Myrtle Manners, who was to be 
his partner in the plunge. 

“It’s a straight falling jump,” said that 
practical young woman, 4 ‘ and not a fancy dive. 
Wo oughtn’t to have any trouble.” 

“We! We!” sneered La Rue. “I’m the one 
that’s got to do it all! And you’re liable to 
turn me over in the air-” 

“Not if you know your business!” said Miss 
Manners tartly. 

La Rue retorted in kind and Montague’s voice 
blared above the argument. 

“Swim for the raft, Jack, and keep hold of 

[ 162 ] 




WATER STUFF 


Myrtle all the way. We’ll ‘pan’ you right down 
the middle of the picture to the raft; and—oh, 
for the love of Mike, quit jawing, you two! 
Anybody would think you were married! . . . 
Now, then, the boat scene first. There ’ll be no 
rehearsals; so don’t make any mistakes!” 


VI 

The boats had pulled away from the side, 
freighted to the gunwales with duly registered 
grief and fear; the liferaft had been maneu¬ 
vered into position midway between the tug and 
the ship, and a hush of expectancy fell on the 
Alden Besse. Over the water came a hoarse 
bellow. James Montague, on the tug, was meg¬ 
aphoning his compliments to the property man. 

4 f What in the double-dash, blankety-blank- 
blank is the matter with that smoke? More 
pots there, Ben! Touch off the oakum!” 

Ben Leslie and his assistants—stooges, in 
the vernacular of the profession, the same being 
short for students—swarmed over the after 
part of the ship, distributing stubby roman can¬ 
dles, which when lighted belched forth great 
quantities of acrid, yellowish vapor. These 
were the smoke-pots, without which there would 
be few film fires. 

The oakum flared suddenly in the waist and 
a dense black smoke-cloud rolled along the deck, 
enveloping Buck Parvin, who had suffered a 
[ 163 ] 






BUCK PARVI 1ST AND THE MOVIES 


temporary relapse. He crawled out of the fire 
zone, strangling and choking and wiping his 
eyes. From a safe distance he looked back 
upon the made-to-order inferno. 

1 1 Gosh-all-zicketty!’’ he coughed. “I always 
knowed Jim Montague could raise hell; but this 
is the first time he ever raised her so high that 
I could see her! What in thunder is coming 
off here ? ’ ’ 

Through the swirling smoke Buck caught 
glimpses of the after part of the ship. La Rue, 
very imposing in his captain’s uniform, waited 
at the rail to establish himself, while Myrtle 
Manners sulked behind the hatch and examined 
her makeup with the aid of a pocket mirror. 
Jennings and the swimmers were grouped be¬ 
low on the deck. The assistant director was 
gesticulating violently and portions of his 
harangue reached Buck’s ears: 

“No funny business! . . . You jump when I 
tell you to! . . . Never mind having your pic¬ 
ture taken! . . . The bigger the splash, the 
better! ’ ’ 

A sudden gust of wind cleared the deck of 
smoke for an instant and one figure stood out, 
clear and distinct—a slender girl, her face white 
save for the splash of carmine on her lips, her 
hands clenched at her sides. Then the smoke 
hid her again. 

1 6 Good Lord! ’ ’ groaned Buck; ‘ ‘ has that kid 
got to jump as well as swim?” 

[ 164 ] 




WATER STUFF 


“ Heads down, yon stooges!” bawled Leslie. 
“How is she now, Jim V 9 

“Better!” floated back over the water. 
“ We ’ll make it now. Ready!—Action!—Go!’ ’ 

The two cameras npon the tug began to click 
in nnison as the first of the extra men flashed 
over the bulwarks and dropped like a plummet, 
feet first, making a tremendous splash. 

“Lovely!” said Montague. “It’s a better 
efFect than I thought it was going to be. Faster, 
there, you boneheads! Faster!’ ’ 

On board the Alden Besse, Jack La Rue 
strode from the rail and disappeared in the 
smoke, determination to do or die written large 
upon his heroic shoulders. Jennings, bent 
double behind the bulwarks, drove the extra 
people to their task. 

“You next! And you—and you! Jump!” 

Buck Parvin, watching the thinning ranks of 
the swimmers, crept down the deck, bending 
low to escape the cameras. Jennie Lee was the 
last to go. Jennings reached out and took her 
by the arm. 

“Get up there and register fear! Hurry!” 

The girl mounted the bulwarks, looked down 
over the side—twenty feet to the green water 
—and cringed, shuddering. 

“That’s Lee!” said Montague, on the tug. 
“A born actress! You’d think, to look at her, 
that she was scared to death! ’ ’ Then, through 
the megaphone: “Don’t overact! That’s 
[ 165 ] 






BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


enough! The picture’s waiting on you! 
Jump! ’’ 

Buck Parvin, crouching below, looked up and 
saw the terror in the girl’s eyes. 

“You’ve got to go now!” he urged. “You’re 
established on the rail! If you don’t jump 
you’ll spoil the picture!” 

“Oh, I’m afraid! I’m afraid!” whimpered 
Jennie. “There’s nobody down there to help 
me if I sink! I’m afraid—and it’s so far too! ’ ’ 

Jennings raged on the deck; Buck pleaded; 
and hoarse, inarticulate howls of rage came 
from the tug. 

“Jump! Jump!” 

Jack La Rue, squatting behind the hatch, saw 
nothing of all this, but he heard Montague’s 
voice uplifted profanely. 

“He means us!” said La Rue; and picking 
up the young woman he staggered to the rail. 
At the sight of him James Montague grazed 
death by apoplexy; and Charlie Dupree, who 
knew something of dramatic values, sucked in 
his breath with a whistling sound. 

“Good-night, nurse!” muttered Dupree. 
“Jack has crumbed this scene for fair! Why 
didn’t the fool stay back there?” But, like the 
dependable photographer he was, he continued 
to make his two revolutions a second, counting 
the film, foot by foot. 

By precedent and every rule of stagecraft 
the hero is entitled to the center of the stage 
and, in his one great moment, the undivided at- 
[ 166 ] 




WATER STUFF 


tention of the audience. La Rue, by blunder¬ 
ing into the picture at the wrong time, was di¬ 
viding the big scene with a cowering extra 
woman—and taking the short end of it. Mon¬ 
tague gurgled and estimated the cost of an¬ 
other day’s work. 

With the singleness of purpose that stamps 
a selfish man as well as a great one, La Rue 
looked neither to the right nor to the left. He 
planted one foot on the rail, cast an imploring 
glance heavenward and floundered over the side 
—making a very bad jump, indeed. At the same 
instant Jennings, who had not seen La Rue at 
the taffrail, pushed Jennie Lee violently out¬ 
ward, and she fell, twisting and screaming, into 
the water. 

“You’re a fine stiff, Jennings!” said Buck 
as he rushed to the how, where he could look 
over the side without fear of getting into the 
picture. Jack La Rue was swimming steadily 
toward the raft, towing Miss Manners; Jennie 
Lee was struggling in the water—once she dis¬ 
appeared entirely. Buck ran hack to the waist. 

“That kid can’t swim!” he cried. “What 
shall we do?” 

“Maybe they can trim her out of the film!” 
said Jennings. 

‘ ‘ She’s drownding, I tell you! ’ ’ shouted Buck. 

There came a bubbling cry for help, followed 
immediately by a terrific blast from the mega¬ 
phone. 

“Somebody go in after that girlB* 

[ 167 ] 







BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


Buck Parvin placed one hand on the bul¬ 
warks and vaulted over the side. Two vigor¬ 
ous strokes carried him into action. Exhaust¬ 
ed, helpless and frightened out of her wits, the 
girl grasped Buck round the neck and clung to 
him with the last ounce of her strength, drag¬ 
ging him below the surface of the water. Buck 
fought himself free from that strangling em¬ 
brace and, seizing her by the hair, struck out 
for the raft, yelling for help. 

“Get that, Charlie! Get that! It'll save 
the picture! '' screamed Montague, dancing up 
and down. “Come on with her, Buck! Right 
for the raft! Pan 'em in, Charlie! Get all 
that! It's great stuff!" 

It is a good director who can turn even an 
accident to account, and a good camera man 
who does not lose his head or his count in emer¬ 
gencies. Dupree, one eye in the viewfinder and 
both hands flying, tilted the black box slightly 
and with the panorama attachment held Buck 
in the exact center of the picture—a maneuver 
that drew roars of protests from the leading 
man. 

“Hey! What are you doing there?" yelled 
La Rue. 

‘‘Shut up!" barked Montague. “I'm saving 
the picture that you ruined!" 

Ordinarily it would not have been a hard 
swim, but Buck was below par physically, 
empty and weak and shaken; and the girl, 
crazed with fear, fought him desperately every 
[ 168 ] 




WATER STUFF 


stroke of the way. He had gone into the water 
fully dressed and his twenty-seven-dollar boots, 
filling with the first plunge, weighed him down 
like anchors. Strangling and spitting, Buck 
reached the raft at last; and Myrtle Manners 
—as much woman as actress—drew the half- 
conscious and hysterical girl to safety. Buck 
managed to hook one foot over the top of the 
raft and hung there panting. 

‘ ‘ A lift, Jack! I’m all in!’ ’ he gasped. 

“It's a wonder to me yon wouldn’t wait till 
I got through!” snarled the leading man. 
“That fool girl crabbed my jump and you 
crabbed my swim!” 

“Too darned bad!” wheezed Buck. “I 
should have let her drown to oblige a stiff like 
you ! 9 9 

“The poor child has fainted!” cried Miss 
Manners. 

“Yes, and this poor child is going to faint 
too, unless he gets help!” said Buck. 

La Rue seized the boot and tugged with all 
his might. Two or three of the extra men 
grasped Buck by the shoulders and heaved him 
up on the raft, where he lay, face downward, 
suffering a last rending attack of his old en¬ 
emy. 

“How much did she run?” asked Montague 
when the cameras ceased clicking. 

“Eighty-two feet,” said Dupree; “and about 
fifty of it was Buck and his lady friend. Gee, 
but that rescue scene was bully! I thought 
[ 169 ] 




BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


Manners could do the best drownding stuff in 
the world, but that skinny little extra woman 
hung it all over Myrtle! Fought like a wild¬ 
cat, didn’t she?” 

La Rue sat on the edge of the raft, scowling 
at a boot he held in his hands. He had torn it 
from Buck’s foot while hauling him aboard. It 
was soggy and limp and dripping—a sad ruin 
of its former beauty, for cowboy boots are not 
made to hold salt water. After some time La 
Rue allowed the boot to slip over the side of 
the raft. It gurgled once and found bottom at 
twelve fathoms. 


Til 

James Montague came from the projecting 
room whistling like a meadow lark. He paused 
to speak a few words to Buck Parvin, who sat 
on the studio steps gazing mournfully down at 
a pair of aged and disreputable boots.' 

“I’ve just seen the negatives of the water 
stuff,” said the director. “The rescue scene 
came out great, and so did the ones I made of 
you and Jennie afterward. That was a good 
idea—writing in parts for you and the girl. It 
switched the picture all round and put La Rue’s 
nose out of joint; but it was the only thing to 
do.” 

“Did the films show what became of that 
other boot?” demanded Buck, betraying sud¬ 
den interest. 


[ 170 ] 




WATER STUFF 


“Are you going to start that argument all 
over again ?’ ’ asked Montague. 

“I want a new pair of boots/’ said Buck 
doggedly. “One of ’em I lost and the other 
is plumb ruined. Twenty-seven bucks them 
boots stood me, and express charges from K. 
C., Missoury!” 

“You won’t get any twenty-seven-dollar boot 
item on my expense account!” said Montague. 
“But, just to show you that my heart is in the 
right place, turn in a bill for five dollars and 
I’ll 0. K. it.” 

“Keep your five dollars! And the next time 
any of your extry people start drownding on 
you, fish ’em out yourself!” 

“That’s a fine thing to say! Most anybody 
else would have been proud of saving a girl’s 
life. That little Lee kid-” 

“Yeh!” said Buck bitterly. “I was out to 
see her the other night. Her mother accused 
me of throwing her off the ship a-purpose, so 
I could make a grandstand play! Called me a 
low, degraded theater actor, and slammed the 
door in my face. For years I’ve been wanting 
to do just two things—save somebody’s life 
in front of a camera, and own a pair of them 
swell K. C. boots. I get the boots, all right; 
then I lose ’em saving a girl’s life—and now 
I’m in bad with her folks!” 

“Tough luck!” said Montague. 

“Only one man ever had it tougher. I had 
a pal down in the Pecos country named Scott 

[ 171 ] 




BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


Hastings. Queer duck, lie was; but all right in 
spots when you found out which spots they was. 
Scotty always said that when he got the dough 
from his old man’s estate he was going to have 
a ringtailpeeler of a time. His notion of a blow¬ 
out was to harness himself up in a boiled shirt, 
with a celluloid collar and cuffs, and paint the 
town red. Scotty got the dinero finally—six 
hundred and thirty dollars, it was, all in a chunk 
—and I went to town with him to help spend 
it. First thing he did was to stake himself to 
a boiled shirt, a big, high celluloid collar, and 
oelluloid cuffs. 

“ ‘Now that I’m all dressed up like a horse,’ 
says Scotty, ‘we’ll have a big five-cent seegar 
apiece; and then we’ll pile this town up in 
heaps and run rings round her! ’ 

“He struck a match to light the seegar and 
the head flew off and lit the collar instead. The 
cuffs chimed in about the same time. Talk 
about your pillars of fire! Scotty went down 
the middle of the street like a runaway comet, 
and if Dud Baxter hadn’t roped and throwed 
him he’d have run his fool self to death! They 
took Scotty to the hospital and did him up in 
cotton batting and linseed oil for about three 
months. When they let him out his bill was 
exactly six hundred and twenty-eight dollars 
and ten cents. Darned good thing they didn’t 
make it fifteen or Scotty would have had to 
owe ’em the nickel! 

“That come from setting his heart on some- 

[ 172 ] 




WATER STUFF 


thing and getting it. I’m going to quit wishing 
for things, Jim, because it seems like the min¬ 
ute I get ’em luck comes along and switches 
the cut on me.” 

“You haven’t been wishing for any cash 
bonus, have you?” asked Montague. 

“No. Why?” 

“Well, that’s all right, then,” said the di¬ 
rector, grinning. “I can’t charge the boss 
twenty-seven dollars for boots; but I did slip 
over a little fifty-dollar bonus for you, Buck. 
It’s not coming to you because you lost the 
boots or because you saved the girl’s life. You 
saved the Titan Company a makeover and an¬ 
other day’s pay for seventy extra people! 
'Sdbet” 

“Fifty bucks!” breathed the cowpuncher rev¬ 
erently. ‘ ‘ Bill Cody himself won’t have a thing 
on me now!” 


[ 173 ] 




BUCK’S LADY FBIEND 


T HE members of the Titan Company, 
comparing notes, agreed that some¬ 
thing was the matter with Buck Par- 
vin, though opinion was divided as to 
what that something might be. A subtle change 
had come over the spirit of that casual and care¬ 
less son of the silent drama, a change that mani¬ 
fested itself in many ways and was, therefore, 
open to many interpretations by his associ¬ 
ates. 

Jimmy Montague, director, actor and main¬ 
spring of the western branch of the Titan Com¬ 
pany, noticed it first. A director notices every¬ 
thing first, which is the reason why he holds 
his job. 

Buck began to develop distressing lapses of 
memory, forgetting the business of his scenes, 
thereby costing the company something in 
wasted film and drawing heavily upon Mon¬ 
tague’s small stock of patience. 

‘ ‘ No, no, no! I told you to hand Jack the let¬ 
ter before you made the exit! I rehearsed you 
twice, and you go sleep-walking over the side¬ 
lines and ball up the entire scene! What’s the 
[ 174 ] 





buck's lady friend 


matter with you lately, Buck? Get on to your¬ 
self, and for pity’s sake don’t jump so when 
I speak to you! ’’ 

When reproved while the camera was click¬ 
ing, Buck would start guiltily and look toward 
the director, thus committing another crime be¬ 
yond excuse or pardon. In the movies, where 
everything goes by looks and gestures, nothing 
registers quite so heavily against realism as a 
startled glance in the wrong direction. It 
makes an awkward break in the action of the 
scene and attracts undue attention to the ma¬ 
chinery, which for the sake of the illusion should 
remain hidden. Hamlet, pausing in his solilo¬ 
quy to exchange ribald greetings with the stage¬ 
hands, could do no worse. 

Charlie Dupree, artist with a camera and 
aware of it, noticed a growing inclination on 
[Buck’s part to linger in front of the lens and 
register full-face photographs rather than ac¬ 
tion. 

‘‘What’s got into Buck lately?” he com¬ 
plained. “That mug of his would stop an 
eight-day clock, but every chance he gets he 
shoves it square in front of the box and holds 
it there. He can’t think he’s pretty, so what 
ails the sucker?” 

“I know,” growled old Jennings, the assist¬ 
ant director. “Buck is beginning to think that 
he can act. So long as he was just an ordinary 
extra man you could depend on him to do as 
he was told. Then Montague went out of his 
[ 175 ] 




BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


way to put him on the regular payroll with the 
rest of us, and now, confound it, the rough¬ 
neck actually thinks that he’s an actor!” Jen¬ 
nings, a graduate from the legitimate, could 
never forget that he had been two seasons on 
the kerosene circuit with Keene. The memory 
of those distant triumphs was often with him. 
At such times he lowered his voice a full oc¬ 
tave, swore strange oaths, said “me” instead 
of “my,” and treated the entire company with 
lofty condescension. 

Bill Cartwright, presiding genius of the pro¬ 
jecting and assembly rooms, where negatives 
are scrutinized for defects and the strips of 
film trimmed and patched together in order 
that they shall tell a smooth and connected 
story, was amazed to receive a request from 
Buck for scraps of waste film, always from 
scenes in which he had played a part. 

“You can have as many of ’em as you like, 
Buck,” said Cartwright; “but I’m blest if I 
see what you want of ’em! They’re only nega¬ 
tives, you know.” 

“They’ll do fine for souvenirs,” said Buck, 
putting the scraps carefully away in his 
pockets. “And, say, when you trim up the 
courtroom scene that we made to-day—the one 
with me on the witness stand—save me a strip 
of that, will you?” 

‘ 4 That’s funny, ’ ’ thought Cartwright. ‘ 4 Buck 
Parvin’s been working here for a couple of 
years off and on and he never asked me for 
[ 176 ] 




buck’s lady friend 


any film before. Wants to lug it round and 
show it to his friends, I suppose. A regular 
kid’s trick!” 

Jack La Eue, the leading man, who was not 
popular with Buck but was nevertheless so 
popular with himself that the general average 
did not suffer, noticed that Buck’s sombrero 
was adorned with a large celluloid button upon 
which was a bald statement of fact and a some¬ 
what impertinent query: 

“I’m somebody’s baby; whose baby are 
you?” 

A rush of judgment to the head warned La 
Eue to withhold comment until Buck was out of 
earshot, thus postponing the crisis. 

Myrtle Manners, the leading woman, as wise 
as she was pretty, and once an object of dumb 
adoration on Buck’s part, noticed that his eyes 
no longer followed her, and being a woman she 
drew certain conclusions from that. Being a 
sensible woman she said nothing. 

Ben Leslie, the property man and Buck’s 
chum, a lean, loose-jointed individual with two 
eyes that were open most of the time, noticed 
all these things and many more, shaking his 
head over some of them. 

“Nothing to it—Buck’s got it bad,” he re¬ 
flected. “All I hope is that it ain’t a widow 
woman with children. A ready-made family is 
the worst kind of a family what is, and Buck’s 
just the particular kind of a darn fool that 
would fall for a widow.” 

[ 177 ] 








BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


The finishing touch was added when Buck 
appeared at the studio one Monday morning, 
disguised in a starched pink shirt, a high white 
collar and a flowing crimson necktie. Buck’s 
taste ran joyfully to violent pot-pourris of 
color, but a white collar and a stiff shirt were 
things that demanded explanation. 

“Your nose is bleeding, Buck,” began Les¬ 
lie, by way of opening the subject. 

“It is not!” said Buck, startled into putting 
his hand to his face. 

“Oh, beg pardon, that’s a necktie, ain’t it? 
Why, of course it is! And a white collar too! 
What are you made up for this morning, 
Buck?” 

“This ain’t no makeup. Can’t a feller buy 
any new clothes without getting bawled out for 
it? I paid for ’em; that’s all you need to 
know.” 

Jack La Rue appeared, trim and natty as a 
leading man should always be, swinging a light 
bamboo cane. He was in time to catch the last 
sentence and his dark eyes took in the situa¬ 
tion at a glance, twinkling mischievously as 
they rested upon the collar. 

“Howdy, Ben! Who’s your friend? . . . 
Why, as I live, it’s Buck! And all dolled up like 
a sore thumb! Now you’re getting some sense. 
When are you going to scrap-heap those Kan¬ 
sas City boots and that cowboy hat?” 

Buck grunted deeply, but did not reply. 

[ 178 ] 




buck’s lady fkiend 


“What’s the celebration?” persisted La Rue. 
“Why the boiled shirt and the collar?” 

“No celebration at all; just something to 
make little boys ask questions.” 

“Oh, well, if that’s the case I’ll ask you one: 
Who is she?” 

“That’s some more of your business!” was 
the reply. 

La Rue grinned at Leslie. 

“I’ll bet Buck has been telling her that he’s 
an actor,” said he, and there was malice be¬ 
hind the bantering tone. “A regular actor, eh, 
and now he’s got to dress the part to make good. 
What?” 

The shot went home. Buck’s face flamed 
suddenly, shaming his cravat. 

“I reckon I got as much right to call myself 
an actor as some folks I could name,” said he 
doggedly. “It wasn’t me that quit in that last 
stunt picture, and I didn’t holler for a double 
in the riding stuff because I had a toothache. 
I can still manage to set up in the middle of a 
hawss without using my teeth to hang on by.” 

La Rue laughed mockingly and sauntered 
away toward his dressing-room. Buck looked 
after the handsome leading man with sullen 
eyes. 

“Ben,” said he, “I can stand just so much of 
that feller’s society and then he goes against 
me. I ain’t hunting trouble, but one of these 
days Mister La Rue is going to crowd the limit 
too far and I’ll swing an uppercut on him. Yes, 
[ 179 ] 





BUCK PAKVIH AUD THE MOVIES 


sir, I’ll move Ms nose up on top of Ms head 
so the rain’ll run into it and drownd him. Who 
give that fonr-flnsher any license to meddle in 
my private affairs ? Has he been made chicken 
inspector round this town, or what?” 

‘‘Then it ain’t a widow,” said Leslie, im¬ 
mensely relieved. “It’s a girl.” 

“I ain’t said if it is or it ain’t,” replied Buck. 
“I ain’t said a word, but take it from me 
there’s class to her. ’ ’ 

“Uh-huh,” said Leslie. “Blonde or bru¬ 
nette ? ’ ’ 

“What difference does that make? They all 
look pretty good to me. I ain’t never had so 
many of ’em on a string that I could afford 
- to be partickler about a color. I’m in luck 
if I can ketch ’em one at a time. . . . Say, 
Ben?” 

“Say it; your mouth’s open.” 

Buck glanced behind him and lowered his 
voice mysteriously. 

“She’s red-headed, Ben,” he whispered, 
“and, believe me, she’s some woman!” 

The property man received this interesting 
confidence in a singular manner. He rose to 
his full height, which was considerable, and 
solemnly extended his hand. 

“Red-headed?” said he huskily. “Good-by, 
Buck. Good-hy, old scout. I thought you had 
a chance until you pulled that line on me. It’s 
all off now. Good-hy.” And Ben sat down 
[ 180 ] 




buck’s lady fkiend 


suddenly with the air of one who will not trust 
himself to speak further. 

“Sa-a-y, where do you get all this good-by 
stuff?” demanded Buck. “I ain’t going any¬ 
wheres that I know of.” 

“That’s the pitiful part of it,” said Leslie, 
wagging his head slowly from side to side. 
“You’re on your way, hut you don’t know it 
yet. You won’t know until it’s too late.” 

“Won’t know what?” asked Buck, bewil¬ 
dered as much by Ben’s manner as by his words. 

“I’m surprised at you,” continued the prop¬ 
erty man. “At your time of life and with your 
experience! Didn’t anybody ever tell you that 
strawberry blondes are dangerous?” 

“How do you mean—dangerous?” asked 
Buck suspiciously. 

“Why,” said Ben, “everybody knows that 
red-headed women have got the marrying bug 
in the most aggravating form. It’s always been 
that way with ’em. Didn’t you ever read his¬ 
tory?” 

“Nothing but ‘The Life of Jesse James,’ ” 
said Buck. “What’s history got to do with 
it?” 

“A whole lot. Look at Cleopatra and Sap¬ 
pho and Helen of Troy and the Queen of Sheba 
and all those female kidnapers! Red-headed, 
wasn’t they?” 

“How in Sam Hill do I know?” said Buck. 
“They was before my time.” 

“Well, it would pay you to look ’em up,” 

[ 181 ] 






BUCK PABVUST AISTD THE MOVIES 


said Ben. “All red-headed women are the 
same. If a fellow comes along and they like 
his looks, they nail him before he can bat an 
eye. Just bing! and they’ve got him. It seems 
to go with the color of the hair. They’re nat¬ 
ural-born wives, every one of ’em, and* they 
can’t help it.” 

“Aw, rats!” said Buck uneasily. “I don’t 
believe it!” 

“You can laugh at me, but you can’t laugh 
at history, and while I think of it here’s an ar¬ 
gument you can’t beat. Did you ever see a red¬ 
headed old maid? Speak up quick now, did 
you ?’ ’ 

6 ‘ Why, I—I—wait a minute till I think. ’ ’ For 
several seconds Buck ransacked a memory not 
too well stocked with women, in search of a 
solitary old maid with red hair. At length he 
was forced to admit defeat. “I don’t seem to 
remember any just now, Ben,” said he. 

“Aha! Ain’t that the answer? You don’t 
remember any because there ain’t any—there’s 
no such animal. Red-headed grass widows are 
plenty, Buck, but you won’t ever see a red¬ 
headed old maid. They all manage to get mar¬ 
ried somehow. That’s because they know what 
they want and they go grab it. I can see your 
finish. She’ll have you up before a justice of 
the peace with your right hand in the air, and 
you won’t get it down till you swear to love, 
honor and obey her whole family—and sup¬ 
port ’em too! ’ ’ 


[ 182 ] 




buck’s lady friend 


“Gimme a chance to talk, will you?” sput¬ 
tered Buck with some heat. “I ain’t said any¬ 
thing about getting married, have I? I ain’t 
even figuring on it. ’ ’ 

“You bet you ain’t!” said Ben. “No man 
figures on it. It’s the other end of the sketch 
that does the figuring every time. Some fine 
evening this girl will take you for a walk and 
stop in front of a furniture store window. 
She’ll show you a sign that says: ‘You furnish 
the girl; we furnish the home. A dollar down 
and a dollar a week.’ A fat chance you’ll have 
after that! Anything that you might say would 
be used against you. . . . Oh, well, maybe it 
would be a good thing for you to settle down 
and marry this girl and raise a family and stay 
home nights and-” 

“But ain’t I told you,” interrupted Buck* 
in sudden panic, “that I’m just keeping com¬ 
pany with her? I dunno’s I’d call her a girl 
either. She’s old enough to know her own mind. 
I don’t like ’em when they’re so awful young. 
All the time I’ve been going with her I ain’t 
said a word that she could figure was serious. 
That’s on the level, Ben; honest, it is!” 

“You may think you haven’t, Buck, but she 
knows better. You’re probably compromised 
right up to your neck. You’re as good as a 
married man this minute.” 

“Don’t you bet no money on it!” said Buck 
warmly. “I’m over seven and I’ve been round 
the block several times. Nobody ain’t kidnaped 
[ 183 ] 









BUCK PARVIIT AND THE MOVIES 


me yet. Georgine’s all right in a lot of ways 
and mighty refined for a woman that works in a 
soap factory, but—well, I dunno, Ben. I’m a 
little skittish of that till-death-do-ns-part thing. 
A feller might live an awful long time. And 
he might want a change once in a while. 

“Now there was ole Four-finger Simpson 
down in the Pecos country. He was so mean 
and ornery that a yeller dog wouldn’t live on 
his ranch. He got laid up with inflammatory 
rheumatism so bad that he couldn’t even wig¬ 
gle his ears. Hoc Bowen rustled round and dug 
up a trained nurse for him—six feet tall, she 
was, and would weigh about fifteen pounds to 
the running foot. Her face and disposition 
matched up with the rest of the scenario. She 
was every bit as easy to look at and as nice 
to get along with as old Four-finger himself, 
and I couldn’t say any worse about her if I 
tried. 

“Well, you’d never guess what she put over 
on Simpson. She rung in a traveling preacher 
and pulled a wedding ceremony on the ole coot 
when he was plum’ out of his head. He al¬ 
ways claimed he said ‘I do’ because he thought 
they was asking him if he wanted a drink. She 
didn’t tell him anything about it until he was 
well enough to stand the shock. By that time 
he didn’t have no more use for a trained nurse, 
and of course he hadn’t never had no use for 
a wife. Ole Four-finger r’ared and pitched 
something awful when he found he was a sure- 
[ 184 ] 




buck’s lady fbiend 


enough bridegroom, but Mrs. Simpson hung on 
like a burr in a cinch, and finally he had to 
pungle up five thousand dollars to get rid of 
her. Then Four-finger up and died suddenlike 
—got as drunk as a minister’s son and was 
kicked by a mustang—and come to find out, he’d 
left all the rest of his property to found a home 
for the indignant poor. When I come away 
that ole woman was wearing black for him and 
lawing to bust the will. The boys was betting 
three to one that she’d do it. Huh-uh! No 
wedding bells for Buck! Marriage is fine, Ben, 
if you can pick the right party, but with mil¬ 
lions of women running round loose and only 
one out of the entire bunch the right one for 
you, there’s an awful heavy percentage against 
a feller before he starts.” 

“Better not start then,” said Leslie. “By 
the way, have you got to the hand-holding stage 
yet, Buck?” 

“Not yet,” said Buck; “but at that I think 
she’d stand for it.” He heaved a gusty sigh 
and thoughtfully fingered a red spot on his 
neck where the collar had chafed him. “Geor- 
gine is certainly some woman!” said he slowly, 
and lapsed into dreamy silence, during which 
Leslie regarded him with mingled resentment 
and compassion, holding his tongue because he 
found no language sufficiently strong to do jus¬ 
tice to the combination. 

“I’m going to meet her this evening,” re¬ 
sumed Buck, still in pleasant reverie. “That’s 
[ 185 ] 






BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


why I’m kind of dressed up a little. I’m re¬ 
hearsing this collar and shirt. Georgine, she 
don’t like soft shirts. She says they ain’t re¬ 
fined. ’ ’ 

“Dream on, Romeo, dream on,” murmured 
Leslie. 

4 4 We’re going to a moving-picture theater,” 
said Buck. “Do you remember that two-reel 
Western thing, with Jim playing the sheriff 
and me in the posse, where I ride lickety-cut 
right up to the camera, pull ole Piefaee up on 
his hind laigs, and light on the ground like a 
circus acrobat with my hat in my hand?” 

“Do you mean ‘The Sheriff’s Pal’?” asked 
Leslie. 

“That’s the baby. It’s been released and 
gets its first run this week. Georgine hasn’t 
ever seen me in a picture. She’s been wanting 
to, but I stalled her off, waiting for a Western 
one to come along.” 

“That riding stunt was about all you had 
to do in the entire picture,” said Ben. 

“I know it,” said Buck. “It was a small 
part, but what there was of it was star stuff. 
Right square in front of the camera too. And 
with my hat off and all. She couldn’t very well 
overlook me, eh?” 

Leslie sniffed and made a clicking noise with 
his tongue, far more expressive than words. 

“Say, Ben ... do you think it would make 
any difference to her . . . being there beside 
[ 186 ] 







buck’s lady friend 


me and . . . seeing me in the picture? You 
know how hard women fall for actors.” 

“Don’t let her miss it,” said Ben quickly. 
“If she knows a real actor when she sees one, 
it may save your life.” 

Buck ignored this unkind thrust. 

‘ ‘ I sort of figured that might make me strong 
with her,” said he with a shameless grin. 

Leslie groaned dismally and rose, prepared 
to abandon the field. 

“Some people ain’t worth saving,” said he. 
“Go to it, Don Juan, hut don’t expect me to 
he your best man. I serve notice on you now 
that I won’t do it.” 

“I ain’t going to need a best man,” said 
Buck. “Haven’t I told you that she was just 
my lady friend? But say, Ben?” 

“Well?” 

“She sure is some woman!” 


n 

On the following morning Buck was early 
at the studio in a soft shirt and an extremely 
unpleasant frame of mind. The other mem¬ 
bers of the company, coming cheerfully to the 
day’s work, gave him light greetings and re¬ 
ceived black scowls or grunts in return. 

Ben Leslie, bursting to ask questions, took 
one look at his friend’s face and retired to the 
fastnesses of the property room, where he 
[ 187 ] 







BUCK PABVIN AND THE MOVIES 


leaned against the wall and abandoned himself 
to unseemly mirth. 

At last Jimmy Montague came into view, 
walking briskly and puffing at a briar pipe, 
revolving great projects in his remarkable 
mind. To him went Buck, chin thrust forward, 
fire in his eyes and strutting like an enraged 
turkey-gobbler. 

“Hello, Buck!” said the director. “How’s 
tricks f ’ ’ 

i ‘ That was a fine thing that they put on at the 
Criterion last night,” said Buck, ignoring the 
morning salutation. 61 That was a swell piece 
of cheese to hand the public!” 

“ ‘The Sheriff’s Pal’?” said Montague. 
“Why, I caught it on the late run and it looked 
all right to me.” 

‘ ‘ Bah! ’ ’ said Buck scornfully. 

Now “The Sheriff’s Pal” was one of Jimmy 
Montague’s pet productions. Not only had he 
written the scenario and directed the making 
of the picture, but he had played the star part 
of the rascally sheriff; and played it very well, 
so it seemed to him. He was astonished and 
rather mystified at Buck’s criticism. 

“I thought it was pretty good,” said Mon¬ 
tague. 

“Pretty good and rotten!” snapped Buck. 

‘ ‘ Why, what was wrong with it ? ” asked Mon¬ 
tague, between amazement and anger. 

“It was cut all to pieces—that was what was 

[ 188 ] 




buck’s lady friend 


wrong with it. The best stuff in it was trimmed 
out.’ 9 

“Well, the footage ran over and we had to 
trim it some in spots, but I thought it got the 
story across all right. The audience liked it.” 

“Yah! A bunch of Eastern tourists! What 
do they know about Western stuff? You can 
hand them anything and they’ll like it. 
Trimmed some in spots! I tell you, Jim, that 
picture was butchered in the projecting room 
—just butchered!” 

“I don’t get you, Buck,” said Montague. 

“Well, get me now. You remember that lo¬ 
cation stuff we did on the Yerdugo road? 
Them chases and things?” 

Montague nodded. 

“You remember that scene where you had 
me come riding down behind the posses and 
do the fancy dismount?” 

1 ‘ Ye-es, ’ ’ said Montague. ‘ 1 1 remember that. 
What of it?” 

“Well, they trimmed it out—that’s what of 
it! They cut that scene as much as fifteen feet. 
There I was, just coming in sight up the road 
and so far away that you couldn’t tell who I 
was, and zip! she was cut off short! They 
slaughtered me in cold blood with a pair of 
shears. It put the whole picture on the bum.” 

“There goes your artistic temperament 
again!” smiled Montague. “It didn’t hurt the 
picture at all, because that bit of yours didn’t 
have any bearing on the plot. It was spectacu- 
[ 189 ] 







BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


lar and all that, and if we hadn’t been away 
over on the footage it would have been left 
in, but it wasn’t necessary to the story and 
they trimmed it out.” 

“Yes, and you let Jack La Rue hog sixty 
feet in one scene, and all he did was load his 
gun and set down on a table! Fifteen feet 
would have saved my life, but I get trimmed 
out! What’s the use of hiring swell Western 
ability if you won’t feature it? There ain’t 
another man in the business could have done 
that stunt any better than me!” 

“Pshaw!” said the director. “You must 
have got up on the wrong side of the bed this 
morning, Buck. What do you care so long as 
you get your money every week? Forget it!” 

“Don’t you think I’ll forget it! When you 
trimmed me out of that scene you made me a 
lot of trouble.” 

“Why, how was that?” 

“Never mind how it was,” said Buck darkly. 
And not another word would he say. 

To tell the truth, Montague did not press 
him. He had other and more important mat¬ 
ters on his mind, and attributing Buck’s out¬ 
break to temperament he passed on into the 
studio. 

It was Ben Leslie who got the whole story at 
the price of a little sympathetic silence. Ben 
could be wise as a serpent upon occasions, and 
he knew the value of a listener to one who has 
need of unbosoming himself. That day was 
[ 190 ] 




buck’s lady friend 


taken up with location work, and during the 
lunch hour Ben smoked cigarettes with Buck 
under a pepper tree in Eastlake Park and wait¬ 
ed for that which he knew could not long be 
delayed. 

It began abruptly with a wild tirade against 
all directors everywhere, their heirs and as¬ 
signs forever, touched with searing emphasis 
upon foot-hogs and favoritism, and wound up 
with a blistering curse laid heavily upon pro- 
jecting-room experts and their assistants. 

“Yes,” said Ben, picking his cue deftly out 
of the air when Buck paused for breath, bank¬ 
rupt of invective, “they cut and slash a film 
right and left, and the worst of it is that they 
never seem to know what to take out and what 
to leave in. They trim at the wrong place every 
time. ’ ’ 

“And they don’t know a real riding stunt 
when they see one, ’ ’ said Buck, and Ben, satis¬ 
fied that he was fairly launched at last, rolled 
a fresh cigarette and nodded grave approval. 

“Now take this sheriff picture, for exam¬ 
ple,” said Buck. “I’d been waiting for weeks 
for that to come along. I’d been sort of prom¬ 
ising Georgine a real treat. I didn’t tell her 
what the stunt was going to be, because that 
would have spoiled it, and I wanted to surprise 
her. And there was other reasons why I want¬ 
ed her to see me in that picture. You know that 
this town is full, of cheap counterhoppers that 
go round telling every girl they meet that 
[ 191 ] 






BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


they’re moving-picture actors. It sounds big, 
and they get away with it until the girl gets anx¬ 
ious to see ’em on a film somewhere, and then 
they’re smoked out because they can’t make 
good. 

“Now Georgine’s awful wise in some ways. 
You can kid her along just so far and then she 
has to be showed. She never said nothing right 
out about it, but it didn’t take me long to tumble 
that she classed me with the bogus bunch. First 
time I told her I was an actor she called me 
right off my perch. 

“ ‘What company*?’ says she quick. 

“ ‘The Titan,’ I tells her. 

“ ‘Haven’t they got a film running some- 
wheres in town?’ she says. ‘Let’s go down on 
Main Street and hunt one up. I’m crazy to see 
you act, Mister Parvin.’ ” 

“Smart woman,” said Leslie. 

“You know it! Georgine, she wasn’t going 
to waste no time on a dead one. She’d met 
them conversational moving-picture people be¬ 
fore. Well, I stalled her along and I had a 
tough job doing it. I might have taken her to 
see me in one or two pictures, but there wasn’t 
anything worth seeing in ’em. No star stuff 
and no hawssback stunts. The first time that 
she ketched me in a film I wanted her to ketch 
me right.” 

“You wanted her to see you at your best,” 
prompted Leslie craftily. 

“That’s the ticket, Ben—at my best. I 
[ 192 ] 




BUCK S LADY FKIEND 


reckon you’d have felt the same way about it. 
It’s natural to want to make a good impression 
at the go-off. I know I don’t cut much ice in 
a soldier coat or afoot in a crowd, but gimme 
my chaps and put me on ole Pieface and I’m 
there forty ways from Sunday. Ain’t I?” 

“You surely are, Buck. None better.” 

“Well, I waited for this picture. I had it all 
doped out just what would happen. Here she’d 
be, setting beside me and waiting all through 
two reels, not recognizing me in any of the 
scenes and getting sorer and sorer all the time 
and making up her mind what a liar I am— 
see? And I’d be saying: ‘Wait now, this is 
going to be good. Stick around, kid. Don’t go 
away.’ And Georgine, madder and madder 
every minute, would be handing it back to me 
strong. And she ain’t like a woman that 
couldn’t do it neither. 

“Then all at once here comes someone rip¬ 
ping along the road like a cyclone, hitting noth¬ 
ing but the high spots and mighty few of them, 
and hanging on by one spur coming round the 
turn. I nudge Georgine and say: ‘ Get this now; 
watch it close!’ Right to the camera this bird 
comes, lickety-clip, up goes ole Pie in the air, 
pawing with his front feet like he always does. 
‘Mercy!’ says Georgine, ‘that man will be hurt!’ 
And zingo! there I am out in front of the whole 
bunch with my hat in my hand and laughing! 
Can you imagine how that would make her feel 
[ 193 ] 






BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


—with me setting right there beside her all the 
time? 

“I figured to give her a chance to get her 
breath and then I was going to lean over and 
whisper: ‘I’ll bet you never met that feller up 
there, did you? Wouldn’t know him from a 
side of sole-leather maybe? I reckon I can’t 
act at all nor ride a hawss nor nothing, eh?’ 
Oh, I’d thought up quite a lot of good lines to 
pull on her.” 

Buck paused and, scooping a handful of scar¬ 
let pepper berries from the ground, began to 
flick them into the air. The bright light of 
romance faded from his eyes and his lower 
lip drooped. Ben Leslie remained discreetly 
silent, but his attitude expressed sympathy. 

“That’s how I doped it to happen,” resumed 
Buck with a heavy sigh. “It was some little 
scenario, only—only the film come out of the 
box a blank. They trimmed my stunt out of 
the picture.” 

“You don’t say so!” 

“Just butchered me. I wouldn’t have mind¬ 
ed that so much if it hadn’t made such a hor¬ 
rible sucker out of me before Georgine, after 
I’d been ribbing her up all the evening and 
promising her that she was going to see some¬ 
thing great. She got mighty sarcastic toward 
the end of the first reel when she hadn’t seen 
hide nor hair of me in the picture. 

“ ‘Lovely make-up you must have, Mister 
Parvin,’ says she. ‘Your own mother wouldn’t 
[ 194 ] 





buck’s lady feiend 


know you. Are you sure that this is the com¬ 
pany you’re with and do they know it!’ 

“I had all I could do to keep her in the thea¬ 
ter until my scene was due. ‘Wait!’ I’d say. 
‘You’re going to be sorry for these cracks 
you ’re making at me. Stick for the big show l ’ ” 

“And then!” suggested Leslie. 

“I tipped her off at the proper time,” said 
Buck. ‘ ‘ ‘ Here it comes at the end of this scene, ’ 
I told her. ‘Watch that road close and don’t 
miss a bit of it! ’ And just as I was starting to 
make the ride, away off in the distance and no 
bigger’n a red ant, whack! off goes the film into 
an announcement! ’ ’ 

There was a long silence after this remark, 
delicately broken by Leslie: 

“Was she—sore!” 

Buck laughed, a strident cackle in which there 
was no mirth. 

“Oh, no, not at all! She wasn’t a bit sore. 
I only had to follow her four blocks with my 
hat in my hand before she’d as much as look 
at me, and it was an hour before she’d speak. 
I certainly did some tall explaining. I reckon 
I expounded the movie business from one end 
to the other. Sore! I should say not!” 

“Did you finally get it fixed up!” 

“Sort of. I’m on probation with her now. 
I can’t play in her yard no more unless I show 
her I’m a sure-enough actor, and she says 
there’s only one way I can do it and that’s to 
bring her out to the studio some day and let 
[ 195 ] 







BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


her see me act with her own eyes. She says 
she’ll believe it then, but she won’t never trust 
a film again if she lives a thousand years. ’ ’ 
“Are you going to do it?” 

“I’m going to square myself with her some¬ 
how,” said Buck moodily. “You ain’t got no 
idea how small that woman made me feel. She 
had me thinking I was the little end of noth¬ 
ing. I ain’t had such a wholesale bawling-out 
since I was weaned. She sure tromped my 
pride underfoot some, Ben. Yes, I’d make good 
with Georgine now if it took a laig.” 

“What’s pride amount to when you’ve just 
escaped matrimony by the skin of your teeth?” 
demanded Leslie impatiently. ‘ ‘ Don’t be a fool, 
Buck. Let the bet go as it lays.” 

“You can say that all right,” remarked 
Buck, rising and stretching himself with a 
cavernous yawn; “but you ain’t never had a 
bawling-out from Georgine, and I have. That 
woman hurt my feelings something scandalous, 
and I’m going to make her apologize to me if 
it’s the last official act of my life— sabe? I’m 
going to make her say she’s sorry; and then, 
like as not, I’ll throw her down so hard that 
she’ll bounce!” 

“Look out she don’t bounce into a furnished 
flat, ’ ’ warned Ben. “ If a redhead can get you 
to forgiving her it’s all off. Remember Cleo¬ 
patra and Sappho and-” 

“Trot ’em all out!” said Buck. “In a 
straightaway tongue-lashing contest I’ll back 
[ 196 ] 






buck’s lady friend 


Georgine to win, hands down and on the chin-^ 
strap, from the whole darn smear. She sure is ! 
some woman! ’ ’ 


III 

The dressing-rooms at the Titan studio are 
situated behind the glass-walled stages where 
the interior scenes are photographed. A num¬ 
ber of narrow, dingy closets extending along a 
gallery serve to house the wardrobes of the 
regular members of the company, and in the 
smallest of these two resplendent creatures, 
partially clad in court costumes of the seven¬ 
teenth century, were struggling before a mir¬ 
ror. The gorgeous white periwigs, the satin 
breeches, the silk stockings, the high-heeled 
slippers with jeweled buckles and the lace at 
wrist and throat contrasted oddly with the 
other articles of wearing apparel scattered 
about the room. Chaps, woolen shirts, ban¬ 
dannas, sombreros, cartridge belts and boots 
were everywhere, for the dressing-room be¬ 
longed to none other than Buck Parvin. 

Charlie Jennings, a stick of grease paint in 
his hand, jabbed viciously at the corner of 
Buck’s left eye. It was one of the detested 
duties of the assistant director to make up the 
extra men and such actors as could not be trust¬ 
ed with pigments. 

“Say, hold still, can’t you, Parvin? Con- 

[ 197 ] 






BUCK PARVIN AXD THE MOVIES 


found it, I’d rather paint an eel’s face than 
make you up! Never mind trying to see your¬ 
self in the glass. I’ll make you as handsome 
as possible.” 

Buck squirmed upon his stool in an attempt 
to catch a glimpse of the rhinestone buckles 
upon his slippers, his glance traversing a pair 
of rose-colored legs, satin to the knee and silk 
to the ankle. 

“Say, Charlie, I don’t look so terrible bow- 
laigged, do I?” he asked anxiously. 

“I’ve seen worse, but I don’t know where. 
You could catch a pig in an alley, all right— 
with the aid of a net.” 

“These short pants and stockings kind of 
show a feller up, don’t they? I look pretty 
nifty in ordinary street stuff, but skin me down 
to tights and I reckon most people could tell 
that I’ve spent a lot of time in the saddle.” 

“Stand sideways to the camera and it won’t 
show—much,” said Jennings absently. 

4 4 1—I wasn’t thinking about the camera. Say, 
does this pale pink look all right on me ? Seems 
to me it’s awful quiet. I like colors with some 
kick to ’em, colors that hit you right in the eye. 
Bed and yellow and some shades of green. 
Say, don’t I get one of them little patches of 
black sticking-plaster on my face? La Rue’s 
going to wear one.” 

4 4 You’ll get all that’s coming to you,” said 
Jennings wearily. 4 4 You’re a French noble¬ 
man in the picture. I don’t know why .Tim 
[ 198 ] 






BUCK’S LADY FRIEND 


cast you for one, unless it’s because you’re on 
the regular payroll and he hates to waste 
money.” 

‘ ‘Do I get that patch?” repeated Buck. 

“Yes, yes, yes! The Lord knows it’ll take 
a lot of patching to make you look the part! ’ ’ 

“Cut it in the shape of a heart, will you?” 
asked Buck. “I got a reason. And say, a little 
more powder wouldn’t hurt, would it?” 

6 ‘ Who’s doing this ? ’ ’ growled Jennings. 11 1 
was handling grease paint before you ever saw 
a theater. When I was with Tom Keene I had 
to make up two and three times at every per¬ 
formance, and-” 

“Yeh, in ‘Richard the Third.’ You told me 
about it before,” said Buck hastily, forestalling 
a monologue on a favorite subject. 

“I guess you’re fixed now,” said Jennings 
as he settled the periwig upon Buck’s powdered 
brow. “I’ve done all that art can do for you. 
Try not to teeter so when you walk. They’d 
spot you for a cowpuncher the minute they 
saw you. Go out in the back yard and prac¬ 
tice a while. Get used to that lace and stuff. 
Here! Look out for that coat! Bo you want 
to split the back out of it? Those things cost 
money! ’ ’ 

Buck cautiously eased himself into a won¬ 
derful rose-colored garment of brocaded silk, 
surveyed as much of his magnificence as was 
visible in a square foot of mirror, and then 
with an inflation of the chest that threatened 
[ 199 ] 





BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


the glass buttons on his flowered waistcoat he 
hobbled out into the sunshine, where he paced 
slowly to and fro rolling a brown paper cig¬ 
arette and trying hard not to notice the sensa¬ 
tion created by his appearance. After a time 
he lifted up his voice in song, crooning an al¬ 
most forgotten classic of the varieties: 

“Aw, my baby, tell me true, 

Do you love me-e-e as I love you?" 

Ben Leslie, in jumper and overalls, drew 
near, bowing low, with his hand on his heart. 

* 1 Greetings, Marcheese, greetings! To think 
that I should live to see my old pal Buck with 
a sticking-plaster heart on his face! What’s 
the matter? Got a pimple?” 

“Oh, get out!” grinned Buck. “How do I 
look?” 

“About the same as you feel—darned un¬ 
comfortable.” 

* ‘ Shucks! I mean do I look the part ? ’’ per¬ 
sisted Buck. 

“You do, in spots. You resemble a marquis 
quite a considerable round the back of your 
neck.” 

1 ‘ But the clothes, the clothes ! 9 9 said Buck im¬ 
patiently. “Ain’t this a humdinger of an out¬ 
fit? Ain’t there class to it?” 

“Well,” said Leslie judicially, “there’s a 
difference of opinion about clothes. Some say 
they don’t make a man and some say they do, 
[ 200 ] 






buck’s lady friend 


but it’s tbe biggest cinch in the world that they 
don’t make a marquis. At that you might be 
able to get away with it if you keep your hands 
in your pockets and stand behind tables and 
things. Jimmy Montague ought to have his 
head examined for casting a bow-legged man 
in a piece of this kind. Those warped shafts of 
yours will register awful strong if the camera 
gets a look at ’em. Maybe you’ve got a comedy 
part though. In that case the worse your legs 
look, the better.” 

1 ‘ My laigs seem to be troubling a lot of peo¬ 
ple round this joint,” said Buck. “They suit 
me all right. I ain’t got no fault to find with 
’em. . . . Say, Ben?” 

“Well.” 

“Remember what we were talking about last 
week over in the park?” 

‘ i Georgine ? ’ ’ 

“Uh-huh. Well, she’ll be here pretty soon. 
I’m expecting her any minute. This is the big 
day, Ben.” 

Leslie took a critical survey of his friend, 
beginning at the periwig, lingering long be¬ 
tween waist and ankle and finishing with the 
rhinestone shoe-buckles. Then he leaned 
against the gallery railing and laughed himself 
limp—laughed until the tears came. 

“Don’t mind me! Enjoy yourself!” said 
Buck petulantly. “What’s so darned funny 
about that, hey? La Rue’s friends are always 
coming out to watch him do studio stuff. You 
[ 201 ] 







BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


had a skirt hanging round for a month and I 
never said anything about it, did I ? Georgine ’s 
the first woman I ever asked out here. I know 
this short-pants part ain’t exactly in my line, 
but Georgine, she thinks there ain’t anything 
like it. She seen a play once where everybody 
dressed like this and done a lot of sword fight¬ 
ing, and that’s her notion of the pure quill in 
acting. Western stuff don’t make any hit with 
her; she says it ain’t refined. The other night 
I was telling her how to bulldog a steer and she 
pretty near fainted. Now when she sees me 
in this get-up she’ll have to admit that I’m an 
actor, won’t she?” 

“She surely will,” said Ben, wiping his eyes. 
“She won’t know you from James K. Hackett 

or-* Judas Priest! Somebody left the gate 

open and look at the crowd pouring in! Boom! 
Boom! There’s a battleship entering port! ’ ’ 

A huge overdressed Amazon came waddling 
resolutely across the yard. She wore an im¬ 
mense picture hat, burdened with scarlet flow¬ 
ers and nodding plumes, and her somewhat re¬ 
dundant figure was draped in billowy white. 
The sun glinted on masses of copper-bronze 
hair, and under the shade of heavily penciled 
brows bold eyes roved searchingly, taking in 
every detail of the unfamiliar surroundings. 

“You darn fool!” ejaculated Buck. “That 
ain’t no battleship! That’s Georgine!” He 
hastened away to receive his guest, leaving Les¬ 
lie open-mouthed and dumfounded. 

[ 202 ] 







buck's lady fkiend 


“ ‘Some woman’ is right!" murmured Ben 
at last. “She's forty if she's a day and she's 
big enough to lick the Mexican standing army! 
Poor old Buck!" 

“Humph, it's you, is it?" was Georgine's 
rather ungracious greeting to her cavalier. 
“It's a wonder you wouldn't have told that 
person at the gate to let me in. He tried to 
stop me, the fresh thing, but I give him a piece 
of my mind.'' 

“Doggone it, Georgine," said Buck contrite¬ 
ly, “I been so busy getting dressed and made 
!Up that I forgot it." 

“That's no excuse for putting a lady in 
bad," said Georgine acidly. 

“Well, I had to get into all this stuff, you 
know," explained Buck. “How do you like 
it?" 

“Turn round slow," commanded Georgine. 
“No, not sideways; all the way round. M-m- 
m-m. That's a right nice piece of silk in the 
coat, but I don't think much of the lace. It's 
imitation, and cheap imitation at that. The 
pants don't fit you." 

“But take it all together," pleaded Buck, 
“it ain't so worse, is it?" 

Georgine snickered. 

“It might look all right on some people," 
said she. “You must have been awful heavy 
when you was a baby or else your ma let you 
start walking too early. Mercy! Ain't you 
simply roasting with that rats' nest on your 
[ 203 ] 







BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


head? Take me somewheres where I can set 
down in the shade, and get me a glass of ice 
water and a fan. I declare I feel’s if I was 
about to melt.” 

It was a very crestfallen Buck who escorted 
the fair visitor into the studio and placed a 
chair for her in a far corner, facing the stage 
and behind the camera. 

“You can see everything from here,” said 
he. “I’ll be back in a minute. Make yourself 
to home.” 

When Buck returned La Rue, a graceful, ele¬ 
gant figure in black silk, was chatting with Mon¬ 
tague in the center of the stage. 

‘‘ Say! ’ ’ whispered Georgine excitedly , 6 ‘ ain’t 
that the man that was in the sheriff picture? 
He’s one of the regular actors, ain’t he?” 

“Yes, he’s with us,” said Buck carelessly. 
‘‘ He calls himself La Rue, but they tell me his 
real name is Flaherty.” 

“I guess he can have a stage name if he 
wants to,” said Georgine, rolling her eyes at 
La Rue over the rim of the glass. 4 ‘ Most actors 
change their names. He’s a handsome wretch, 
ain’t he?” 

“He thinks so,” was the grim reply. “He’s 
awfully stuck on himself. ’ ’ 

“He’s got reason to be,” said Georgine calm¬ 
ly. “Any man with his eyes and his figure has 
got plenty of excuse. I’ll bet he’s a terrible 
flirt.” 

“He’s worse than that,” said Buck shortlv. 

[ 204 ] 







buck’s lady friend 


“Oh, well,” said Georgine, “it might not he 
the poor boy’s fault. Most likely there’s a lot 
of women running round after him all the 
time. ’ ’ 

“Yeh, women are fools about actors, but no¬ 
body with any sense would fall for that feller.” 

“Oh, I don’t know’s I’d say that. He looks 
to me as if he might be right good company. He 
ain’t married!” 

“No, divorced.” 

“Prob’ly she didn’t understand him.” 

“She did, though—that’s why she brought 
suit. Say, lemme tell you a stunt he pulled a 
few weeks ago. We was making a Western pic¬ 
ture and he had to ride down a steep hill and 
jump his hawss over a creek. It wasn’t what 
you’d call hard. I could have done it bareback. 
La Rue took a look at the water and quit cold 
—said he had a toothache. Montague had to 
double him in the scene and one of the extry 
men made the ride, a feller fixed up to look like 
him.” 

“I’ll bet they never gave you that job,” said 
Georgine with a laugh. 

“Who, me? Say, I’ve doubled La Rue as 
many as forty times!” boasted Buck. 

“It must have been at a distance,” said Geor¬ 
gine. “And I don’t see why he should be tak¬ 
ing foolish chances. Suppose he’d get hurt or 
something?” 

“A moving-picture actor has got to be 
game,” said Buck, “and La Rue ain’t. He’s 
[ 205 ] 






BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


got a streak as wide as the Mississippi River!” 

“You can’t get me to believe that,” smiled 
Georgine, still exasperatingly calm. “You’re 
just jealous, that’s all.” 

“What?” cried Buck in genuine amazement. 
“Jealous—of him? Why, say, he never saw 
the day that he could do my stuff! He ain’t got 
the nerve to try it even! Wasn’t I telling you 
that I was two seasons with the Bill Show, rid¬ 
ing outlaws? Two Step, Aeroplane, Rocking 
Chair, Ole Steamboat—I’ve rode all them 
hawsses. There ain’t many can say as much. 
I was-” 

Georgine yawned openly. 

“I wish’t you wouldn’t talk about yourself 
so much,” said she. “I do despise a conceited 
man above all things. Oh, here comes the rest 
of ’em! What are they going to do now?” 

The studio began to fill up with powdered 
gentlemen in wigs and ruffles. The stage car¬ 
penter added the finishing touches to a rich 
parlor setting and withdrew, mopping his brow. 
Buck rose hastily with something very like a 
sigh of relief. 

“We’re going to rehearse a scene,” said he. 
“I don’t know what it’ll be, but I’m in it as 
big as a wolf. You want to watch close.” 

“I like the way Mr. La Rue walks,” said 
Georgine, who had not given heed to Buck’s 
remark. “I do believe he’s the most graceful 
thing I ever saw. Seems to me it wouldn’t be 
any more than polite for you to introduce him. ” 
[ 206 ] 




buck’s lady friend 


“He ain’t the kind of a man I’d care to in¬ 
troduce to any of my lady friends,” said Buck 
sternly. 

Fate, which often uses the wireless teleg¬ 
raphy of the human eye to bring about its ends, 
chose this moment to strike the spark of jealous 
anger deep into Buck’s wounded vanity. Jack 
La Rue, idle and mischievous, glancing casually 
about the studio, spied Georgine and stared 
hard at her. Interpreting his curiosity as an 
awakening interest, Georgine tossed her plumes 
with bovine coquetry and, if a woman weighing 
one hundred eighty-nine pounds can he said 
to simper, Georgine simpered. 

“Bless me!” thought La Rue. “Buck’s 
friend is trying to start something!” 

Still holding her with his eyes, and conscious 
of Buck’s strained attitude and sullen de¬ 
meanor, the handsome leading man favored 
Georgine with a slow, deliberate smile. 

“Well, of all the nerve!” she cooed in a de¬ 
lighted flutter. “Did you see that? I declare, 
I knew that man would flirt the minute I laid 
eyes on him! Oh, ain’t he the rascal! ’ ’ 

“Well, he better not flirt with you!” 

“You’d do something about it, I s’pose?” 

“Yes, I’d do something about it!” 

“You think you could stop him flirting with 
me if he really wanted to?” asked Georgine 
dreamily. 

“I reckon I could try!” snapped Buck. 

[ 207 ] 





BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


IV 

“Scene forty-two, Dupree,’’ said Montague. 
* ‘ Got your background clear ? I want all of the 
stairs and tbe landing above. Be careful you 
don’t cut off Jack’s bead when be makes bis 
entrance. ’ ’ 

“All set,” said Dupree. 

“Now, then,” said the director, addressing 
tbe male members of tbe company, ‘ ‘ I want tbe 
extra men in tbe background. Two or three 
of you go over there by tbe mantelpiece and 
talk among yourselves. Never mind trying to 
act. Just stand naturally, chatting and laugh¬ 
ing. Ob, yes, you might hand round tbe snuff¬ 
box. That’s always good stuff in a costume 
piece. Where is that snuff-box, Ben?” 

“Coming up,” said tbe imperturbable prop¬ 
erty man. 

“Jennings,” continued Montague, “take 
three more of tbe extra people and be playing 
cards at tbe table. Buck, sit down here at tbe 
desk and be reading this letter. Look up, crum¬ 
ple tbe letter in your band and register surprise 
and then anger. Straighten in your chair and 
bit tbe desk a rap with your open band. You’ve 
just made up your mind to do something des¬ 
perate, see? . . . Jack, that’s your cue. Come 
across tbe landing and stop at tbe head of tbe 
stairs. All tbe rest of you turn and look at 
[ 208 ] 




buck’s lady friend 


him. Those of you that are sitting down get 
up, because he’s a duke of royal blood. Buck, 
you get up last and face the stairs. You might 
be able to play a marquis with your back to 
the camera, and the tails of that coat will hide 
your legs some. Jack, you smile and bow to 
everybody, then come down the stairs and walk 
straight up to Buck with your hand held out. 
Give him the line: 6 I congratulate you, mar¬ 
quis.’ You look at his hand, Buck, but instead 
of taking it you slap him across the cheek. Not 
a hard slap, you understand; you’re just doing 
it as an insult. All the rest of you jump and 
register great surprise when the duke gets 
slapped. Jack, you take a step backward and 
go after your sword; Jennings and his three 
extra men will grab you and the others will 
collar Buck. I don’t want anybody in front of 
Jack in this struggle scene, because I want him 
to be registering surprise. Make that strong, 
Jack. And, remember, not too much of a strug¬ 
gle. This isn’t ‘Ten Nights in a Barroom.’ 
These two men are gentlemen. You’re all gen¬ 
tlemen. Don’t forget it. No football tackling 
will go. Simply hold their arms and look 
shocked and drag them apart, and don’t get 
in front of Jack’s face while you’re doing it. 
That’ll be the end of the scene. We’ll run 
through it a couple of times to get the business 
right. Take your places.” 

The action progressed smoothly to the point 
where Buck looked up from the letter. 

[ 209 ] 







BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


“Not right into the camera!” instructed 
Montague. “Look beyond it. Now, then, reg¬ 
ister surprise—oh, fine stuff, Buck!’ 9 

At that moment Buck could not have reg¬ 
istered anything but surprise had his life de¬ 
pended upon it. His glance, traveling beyond 
the camera, rested on Georgine, fair, fat and 
faithless. She was smiling coyly and waving 
a handkerchief, but, alas, for feminine con¬ 
stancy, her eyes were directed toward the point 
where La Rue was standing waiting for his 
cue. 

‘ ‘ Bully ! 9 9 cried Montague. ‘ 1 Immense! Now 
the anger. That’s it! Hit the desk. Good 
work, Buck! Come on, Jack!” 

La Rue strode across the landing and paused 
at the head of the stairs. His eyes were danc¬ 
ing with mischief and he bowed to the company 
with gay abandon. 

“Up! All up!” cried Montague, and Buck 
was the first man on his feet. His right hand, 
falling at his side, knotted into a fist. 

“Watch that sucker act!” crowed Dupree. 
‘ 1 He ain’t as rotten as I thought . 9 9 

The duke tripped lightly down the stairs and 
across the carpeted floor, a mocking smile upon 
his face. 

“I congratulate you, marquis,” said he, and 
then, under his breath: “Who’s your fat friend, 
Buck?” 

“I’ll show you!” roared Buck, and launched 
his fist from the hip. La Rue, taken entirely 
[ 210 ] 




buck’s lady fkieud 


by surprise, went down like a shot rabbit, up¬ 
setting cbairs and card-table, but be was on his 
feet again in an instant, meeting Parvin’s in¬ 
furiated attack with a very workmanlike right 
cross which rocked that hero to the very heels. 
In the twinkling of an eye the entire foreground 
filled with silken coattails, powdered wigs, 
hooks, jabs, uppercuts and swings, and many a 
peacemaker found that it is indeed more blessed 
to give than to receive. Above the melee rose 
Buck’s voice, shrill with rage: 

“I’ll learn you not to get gay with my girl!” 

The battle, furious while it lasted, was a 
short one. With his own capable hands Jimmy 
Montague dragged his leading man back toward 
the camera, while a mound of arms and legs 
marked the spot where the extra men were 
struggling with Buck. It was then that a large 
figure in white swept majestically through the 
door and out into the yard. 

* ‘ Call that acting f ’ ’ said Georgine. 4 4 It looks 
more to me like a roughhouse. I ain’t going 
to stay no place where people don’t act gentle¬ 
manly ! ’ ’ 

V 

The late marquis sat in his dressing-room 
contemplating a swollen nose and an angry puff 
under the left eye. Ben Leslie appeared to 
say that a piece of raw beefsteak had been or¬ 
dered. 


[211] 





BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


“It was worth a week’s lay-off to lick that 
smart Aleck,” said Buck. “I ain’t worrying 
none about that. I wanted a vacation anyhow. 
But say, Ben?” 

“Well?” 

“What become of Georgine? I looked all 
round for her, but I couldn’t find her.” 

“She beat it,” said Leslie. “Told the man 
at the gate to let her out because some hoodlum 
had started a free-for-all.” 

“Some hoodlum!” repeated Buck bitterly. 
“That’s the best I get, is it? Oh, well, Geor- 
gine she was always too refined for me. And 
fickle too. I reckon she’ll stay sore for good 
this time, but if it’s true about them red-headed 
women, maybe I’m lucky.” 

“Huh!” said Leslie. “You needn’t have 
been worried about Georgine.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Oh, nothing. Only that red hair of hers 
come out of a bottle. She wasn’t the real ar¬ 
ticle in red-heads.” 

There was a long silence after this remark. 

“Well, anyhow,” said Buck, “she was some 
woman! ’ ’ 

‘ 6 She was that! ’ ’ said Ben Leslie. 


[212] 




DESERT STUFF 


P ETE,” said the editor of the Sunday sup¬ 
plement to his staff, “can’t yon bring 
yonr feature story for next week a lit¬ 
tle nearer home? Russian court scan¬ 
dals are all right in their way and the inside 
dope on the Hohenzollern family is immense, 
but our readers don’t know these grand dukes 
and princes personally. See if you can’t fix up 
something with a Southern California flavor to 
it. Give us a touch of that Southland stuff.” 

“Everybody likes to read about royalty,” 
said the staff sulkily, who liked to write about 
it. He was a pale, blond youth, addicted to 
ready-made cigarettes, alliteration and watery 
eyes. “And, besides,” he complained, “that 
slush about the Southland makes me sick.” 

“Sure it does,” said the editor soothingly—- 
“you and me both, Pete. It makes all the na¬ 
tives sick, but these Californians from Indiana 
and Pennsylvania like it. These hardy forty- 
niners from Cedar Rapids and Emporia eat it 
alive. We’re developing a race of professional 
Californians, and the Southland is their Dixie. 
[ 213 ] 







BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


It’s a pity they haven’t got a song about it so 
that these adopted Argonauts can stand up in 
the cafeterias and yell when the orchestras play 
it. But they read our paper and that’s the an¬ 
swer.” 

“I’ll see what I can do,” said the staff, smit¬ 
ing his corrugated brow. 

The mission of the Sunday supplement of a 
newspaper is not to instruct or to entertain, 
but to astound those weary souls to whom the 
Sabbath is a day of rest and mental relaxa¬ 
tion. The young men who write the supplement 
articles are resourceful as well as clever. They 
have need to be, for they explain the inexpli¬ 
cable, invent the impossible, spin mysteries out 
of cigarette smoke, outride Rider Haggard and 
entrap the reader in a mesh of plausible fiction 
soberly presented as fact. 

When invention fails and imagination flags, 
the, Sunday Munchausens have recourse to the 
stock stories of the trade. These have been 
written and rewritten until they are as thread¬ 
bare as a schoolmaster’s coat, but like the coat 
they are always ready for one more public 
appearance after the high lights and gray 
shadows have been freshly touched with ink. 

In such a predicament the Sunday supple- 
menteer turns to three old friends. He may 
discover the lost Charlie Ross once more, which 
is safe enough provided one locates him far be¬ 
yond the circulation belt of the paper; he may 
unravel the mysteries surrounding the death of 
[ 214 ] 





DESERT STUFF 


tlie Mad Prince, or he may summon out of thin 
air a witness who has seen the wild camels 
upon the Great American Desert. And since 
Charlie Ross and the Mad Prince entail a trip 
through the files, the odds are with the wild 
camels. 

These are without doubt the most reliably un¬ 
reliable camels of which we have any record. 
They have driven the sea-serpent of the Atlan¬ 
tic coast into permanent retirement and caused 
the all-alive mastodon of Alaska to hide his 
head for shame. No man has ever seen them 
save with the eye of faith, yet at regular inter¬ 
vals they gallop through the pages of our Sab¬ 
bath literature, invariably disappearing in a 
cloud of dust, for these camels are swift as well 
as wild. 

No one knows what fertile brain sired these 
animals and gave them sanctuary upon the 
western boundary of Utah; it is enough to say 
that the wild camels, existing at first in the 
wilder imagination of some nameless genius of 
the press and nurtured by scores of imitators, 
are now very real to those who believe that 
everything in a newspaper is true. 

As a matter of fact, there are no wild camels, 
never have been wild camels and never will be 
wild camels at large upon the Great American 
Desert, but a thousand times we have been told 
how they came there and why they are wild. 
In all probability we shall continue to receive 
reports of them, for they are to the Sunday- 
[ 215 ] 










BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


supplement author what rags and virtue are to 
the melodramatist and the slapstick is to vaude¬ 
ville—a sure-fire hit. 

Thus Pete, smiting his corrugated brow, 
struck forth the spark of a brilliant idea. Some¬ 
thing local, eh? Something with a touch of the 
Southland? Oh, very well. He would import 
the wild camels, bringing them across Nevada 
into California. He would locate them in the 
vast, sandy waste—here Pete reached for the 
atlas—the vast, sandy waste south of Death 
Valley. He would multiply their numbers, 
adding camel colts and a gaunt, white leader 
with a bell tinkling at his shaggy neck. 

“I guess that’ll be poor!” said Pete to him¬ 
self as he tossed a sheet of paper into the maw 
of his typewriter. He clattered into print as 
follows: 

“ Yesterday Thomas Smith, better known as 
Honest Tom, an aged desert prospector who 
has spent forty years of his life in search of 
the Peg-leg Mine, returned from a trip to the 
Panamint country with a marvelous tale which 
has caused a flare of excitement in every desert 
camp between”—here Pete took another look 
at the map—“ between Yermo and Ivanpah. 
Mr. Smith, when seen at the residence of his 
sister, on Olive Street-” 

And then three thousand words about the 
wild camels. 


[ 216 ] 




DESERT STUFF 


n 

James Montague, producing director for the 
Titan Company and author of many famous 
scenarios, was not a boastful man, but he often 
remarked that all he needed was a start. 

* 1 Plots come easy to me/’ he explained. 
“Give me the germ of an idea and I’ll coax 
it along until I get a picture out of it. Start 
me to thinking along a certain line and the plot 
unfolds without any trouble. The tough part 
of it is to get started on something new.” 

Since the germ of the idea gave him the most 
trouble Jimmy sought it everywhere. Fre¬ 
quently the monthly magazines furnished in¬ 
spiration. Montague was no pirate, and he knew 
too much about the copyright law to lay his 
company liable for damages, but he was an 
artist at borrowing something which the author 
would never miss and transforming it into 
something which he would never recognize. The 
daily newspapers also gave many valuable 
hints and Jimmy read them religiously. 

On a Monday morning Montague arrived at 
the studio, brimming over with enthusiasm. He 
patted the office boy on the back, smiled at the 
telephone girl, and shouted a greeting at Buck 
Parvin, who was sunning himself in the back 
yard outside the studio. 

“That means trouble,” remarked Buck to 
Ben Leslie, the property man. “Any time Jim 
[ 217 ] 








BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


comes in so brash on a Monday morning, look 
ont. He’s thought of something new and all 
his new stunts are hard. That feller ain’t ever 
real happy unless he’s cranking up trouble for 
us poor actors.” 

‘ 4 Poor is the right word,” said Leslie sar¬ 
castically, “though I don’t know as I’d go so 
far as to say actor. If they make ’em any 
poorer than you are, Buck, I never saw any. 
Too darned bad about you overworked Thes¬ 
pians! You lead a dog’s life for a fact; noth¬ 
ing to do but lay around in the sun and get fat. 
Now if you had my job there might be some 
excuse for hollering. Jim rang me up at mid¬ 
night last night and rousted me out of bed, and 
what do you think he wanted!” 

Buck shook his head. 

“I wouldn’t undertake to say what he’d want 
at any hour of the day or night. Elephants, 
maybe!” 

“Pretty near as bad,” said Ben. “He want¬ 
ed to know if I could get him some more 
camels.” 

“More camels!” ejaculated Buck. “Why, 
the jumping Jee-rusalem! There’s a lot of 
camels over at the animal farm now. Sharkey 
and Ole Blue-” 

“And Betsy and Marne,” finished Leslie. 
“You’d think that would be enough camels for 
a mess; but no, he wants more. So he drags 
me out of the hay at midnight to tell me about 
[ 218 ] 






DESERT STUFF 


it. Tom Platt never ought to have had the name 
of the Easy Boss. Jimmy Montague is it.” 

1 i But what does he want with camels ?’’ asked 
Buck. ‘ ‘ The last time I had to do a camel stunt 
Sharkey stumbled and heaved me forty feet. 
That old feller can’t get out of a walk without 
stepping on his upper lip. A white man was 
never intended to ride one of them biscuit-foot¬ 
ed outrages, Ben.” 

‘ 4 That’s me, ’’ said Leslie. ‘ ‘ I wouldn’t keep 
a camel in my back yard if I had room for a 
steamboat. I could arrange to stand it if I 
never got another pleasant look from one as 
long as I live. Nix on that ship-of-the-desert 
stuff for mine.” 

“Pd ship ’em all to the desert if it was up 
to me, ’ ’ said Buck. ‘ 6 What kind of a song and 
dance did you give Jim?” 

“What do you think? I’m the property man 
for this outfit, ain’t I? Jim Montague says to 
me: ‘I want this and I want that; go get ’em’ 
—and I do. That’s what I’m paid for, and Jim 
hasn’t stumped me yet, though he’s had me 
worried a lot of times. This was easy. ‘Oh, 
you want some more camels?’ I says, just like 
that. ‘I can get you camels in all sizes and 
colors, with one hump or two humps, as pre¬ 
ferred. Will you have ’em delivered right 
away?’ That’s what I told him.” 

“Yes, but you can’t make good,” protested 
Buck. 

“That’s where the laugh comes in—I can,” 

,[ 219 ] 






BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


said Ben. “Ward Brothers’ Circus is winter¬ 
ing at Santa Monica. Billy Ward has got cam¬ 
els to burn, eating their heads off and doing 
nothing. I can get anything Billy owns, from 
a hippopotamus to a red bandwagon. Him and 
me are as close as two fingers on one hand. 
Oh, I can get the camels, all right. Which kind 
of a camel would you prefer to ride, Buck, one 
hump or two 1 ’ ’ 

“I wouldn’t wish to ride none of ’em,” said 
Buck. “I’d just as soon straddle the walking- 
beam of a ferryboat—yes, a heap sooner, be¬ 
cause you can most generally tell where that’s 
going. I get along with some animals first rate, 
but I couldn’t waste any affection on a camel 
—not on a bet. That Selim elephant and me 
hit it off bully; he’s almost human. I got a lot 
of respect for a lion. A lion has got his faults, 
but he’s no hypocrite. He ain’t your pal one 
minute and taking a swipe at you the next. A 
lion don’t like you at no time whatever and 
you don’t expect nothing from him, but a camel 
now, he’s different. A camel has got a bad 
heart and a breath that would knock you down. 

*' I reckon I honeyed round that brute of a Shar¬ 
key for pretty near a month, feeding him and 
rubbing his nose and trying to make myself 
solid with him. As long as I kept my eye on 
him he was all right, but the first time I turned 
my head to spit—whoosh! and here he come. 
I busted the world’s record for the standing 
jump, and I had to do it or Sharkey would have 
[ 220 ] 




DESERT STUFF 


bit my ear off. Take it from me, Ben, a camel 
is just as deceitful and lowdown and ornery 
as he looks—and that’s going some.” 

While this discussion was taking place James 
Montague, in his private office, was calling the 
animal farm, the moving-picture menagerie 
owned by the Titan Company. 

“Girlie, get me Tim Kelly at the animal 
farm,” said he. 

16 Something doing, ’ ’ said the operator behind 
her hand to the office boy. “Maybe he’s thought 
of a way to use those alligators that Mr. Pack¬ 
ard bought. They’d be lovely in a picture, and 
new stuff too. Hello! Just a minute, Mr. 
Kelly.” 

6 ‘ That you, Tim ? ’ ’ said the director. ‘ ‘ This 
is Jim talking. I tried to get you last night. 
Come over right away, will you? . . . Yes, a 
new animal stunt. ... As soon as you can, 
then. ’ ’ 

Ben Leslie was next summoned from the 
property room. 

“How soon can you get those camels?” asked 
Montague. 

“Any time,” said Ben. “How many do you 
want ? ’ ’ 

“All I can get.” 

“Nothing could be clearer than that,” said 
Leslie calmly. “ I ’ll get you camels till you can’t 
rest. What’s the stunt ? ’ ’ 

“I’m going to make a real desert picture. 
We’ve been fooling along, using a dry river- 
[ 221 ] 






BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


bed and a sandpile for a desert and getting 
away with it, when we might just as well give 
’em the real thing, with the desert itself for 
a background. I Ve got a picture in mind that ’ll 
have a lot of scenery in it, and when I get 
through I dare anybody to say that it wasn’t 
made in the Sahara. We can ship a couple of 
carloads of camels to one of the little desert 
towns, hop out and make the stuff and be back 
inside of three days. It won’t cost much, but 
we’ll get a desert picture that will have atmos¬ 
phere and color and—all that stuff. By the 
way, Ben, where are you going to get those 
camels? From Ward’s circus?” 

4 ‘Sure thing. Billy Ward has got a whole 
slew of camels—more camels than anything 
else. Did you ever see that big white drome¬ 
dary that leads the bunch in the street parade ? 
That’s old Aladdin, and take it from me he’s 
some camel.” 

“A white camel!” exclaimed Montague. 
“You don’t say so!” 

“But I do say so. Maybe they doped him 
up with peroxide or something, but he’s the 
whitest camel you ever saw.” 

“That’s a queer coincidence,” said Monta¬ 
gue. “Look at this.” 

He drew out a copy of the Sunday supple¬ 
ment of a local paper and spread it open upon 
the desk. The artist, collaborating with Pete, 
had produced a riot of camels across seven 
columns, and the flying leader was an immense 
[ 222 ] 




DESERT STUFF 


white brute with a single bump. Above the 
illustration was a flaring line in large type: 

Guided by Ghostly Leader 
Wild Camels Invade the Southland 

‘ * Holy cat! ’’ ejaculated Leslie. * ‘ If that ain 9 t 
a ringer for old Aladdin I’ll eat him!” 

“Do you think Billy Ward will let us have 
him?” 

‘ 1 Of course. He’ll come in mighty handy too, 
because these circus camels have been trained 
to follow him just like sheep. Wherever Alad¬ 
din goes the bunch will go. That’ll save you a 
lot of trouble.” 

“Lovely!” said Montague. “Think of the 
effect we can get with a silhouette run, pulled 
off against the skyline, that old white fellow in 
front and all the others trailing him! We can 
use a telescopic lens and catch ’em as far away 
as a mile. That’ll give us a chance to ring in 
a big stretch of desert for a foreground. Stain 
the film for a sunset glow and that’ll be poor, 
eh?” 

“It ought to make a swell picture,” said Ben, 
“but there’s one thing you mustn’t overlook. 
Somebody has got to ride Aladdin, and you’d 
better pick the right man for the job. Jack La 
Rue is all right on a horse, but he’s pretty 
rough with livestock, and a camel won’t stand 
to be yanked round the way Jack yanks a horse. 
Billy Ward was telling me about Aladdin; he’s 
[ 223 ] 







BUCK PAKVIH AND THE MOVIES 


awful touchy, and they have to handle him just 
so or he gets peeved and won’t work. Far be 
it from me to butt in, Jim, but Billy Ward is 
going to hold me responsible for those camels 
and particularly Aladdin. Billy thinks more 
of that old white rascal than anything in the 
show, and he’d never forgive me if something 
happened to him. If you let La Rue do the 
riding he’ll get impatient, the way he always 
does, and boot Aladdin in the slats a few times, 
and the first thing you know there ’ll be camels 
scattered forty ways and it won’t be any picnic 
to round ’em up again. If it was up to me, 
Jim, I’d put the best rider in the company on 
Aladdin.” 

“How about Buck?” asked Montague. 

“That’s the man I’d pick,” said the treach¬ 
erous Leslie. 

“I’ll fix it up,” said the director, eager to 
be at work upon the new scenario. “You go 
and make arrangements with Billy Ward. 
We’ll pay him anything in reason, but we must 
have that white camel. If he w r ants to send his 
own animal man along he can. Better dig up 
a few camel saddles while you’re about it, and 
if Ward has got any Arab costumes, grab ’em.” 

“They’re as good as grabbed,” said Ben. 
“I’m off.” 

“What’s the dope?” asked Buck, following 
Leslie into the property room. 

“I don’t know what the picture is going to 

[ 224 ] 




DESERT STUFF 


be,” said Ben, “but if you’ll show me your 
band I’ll tell your fortune.” 

6 6 Shoot! ’’ grinned Buck, extending his palm. 

“Ah! See this line here? That’s a journey, 
Buck. You’re going away from here—on a 
railroad train. Somewhere on the trip you’ll 
meet an animal. ... It looks like a camel. . . . 
By golly! It is a camel. ... A white camel 
with a black heart and one hump. ... I see you 
riding that camel, Buck. . . . My, oh, my! Look 
at all those little crisscross wrinkles! They 
mean trouble. You won’t like that camel and 
he won’t like you. You’ll have an accident. 
You and that white camel are going to get into 
a jam of some kind-” 

“You see these?” demanded Buck, doubling 
up his fist and patting his knuckles. ‘ * See these 
four little lumps? They mean trouble, too, and 
you’re going to run your eye into ’em if I find 
out that you’ve framed this camel thing on 
me. You big long-legged scarecrow! I reckon 
you and Jim put your heads together and fixed 
up a job.” 

“Nothing like that,” said Leslie. “It’s fate 
for you and that white camel to meet. Further¬ 
more, I’ll state that I know that camel person¬ 
ally and he’s the meanest camel that ever dipped 
his face into a bale of hay. The man who takes 
care of bim wears shinguards and a baseball 
mask.” 

“Is that on the square?” asked Buck anx¬ 
iously. 

[ 225 ] 







BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


“Everything is on the square bnt the camel, 
and he never was on the square in his life. You 
ask any circus man about Aladdin. They all 
know him. The old sucker has got a reputation 
for pure cussedness that reaches from one end 
of the country to the other.’’ 

“He’s bad, is he?” 

“Bad? "Why, say, a Bengal tiger is a gentle¬ 
man and a scholar and a sucking dove beside 
him! You’re always blowing about what a 
great rough rider you are, and here’s where you 
show me. If you take my tip you’ll wear a suit 
of armor and put shock absorbers in your hip 
pockets.” 

‘ J Uh-huh, ’ ’ said Buck slowly. 11 1 get you on 
the shock absorbers, but why the armor, Ben?” 

“Oh, nothing, only this Aladdin bites like a 
wolf.” 

There was an ominous silence, during which 
Buck rolled a cigarette. When he spoke his 
voice was soft as silk and his manner almost 
apologetic. 

“You been kind enough to tell me what’s go¬ 
ing to happen to me,” said Buck, “so I’ll tell 
you what’s going to happen to you. If this 
camel friend of yours bites me and I find it out 
you get some shock absorbers fitted to your jaw¬ 
bone because that’s where you’ll need ’em. As 
to my riding, I don’t know as I blow so terrible 
much. I claim I can set up in the middle of 
anything that has to light on the ground once 
in a while. I’ll ride this Aladdin camel, you 
[ 226 ] 




DESERT STUFF 


can bet on that, bnt if be bites me watch ont 
lor yourself. And if you think anything of him 
at all you better breathe it in his ear that it 
won’t be healthy for him to grab no free lunch 
off Buck Parvin. As a general thing I aim 
to be kind to dumb animals, but a feller has got 
to draw the line somewhere, as Doc Bowen said 
when he found the skunk in his kitchen. Being 
camel-bit is the extreme tip of the limit with 
me, and if your friend Aladdin starts anything 
coarse I’ll whang him over the head with the 
butt of my gun. Yes, I’ll hang a couple on his 
eyebrow that he won’t be able to wipe off in a 
hurry. And after I’ve learned him manners 
I’ll run you plumb breathless for wishing him 
on to me. You sabe that, amigo f’ 9 

III 

The Occidental Limited, eastbound from Los 
Angeles to Chicago, clicked over the rails at an 
average speed of forty miles an hour, a wheeled 
palace flying through the heart of the desert. 
The lone tourist on the observation platform 
stared at the two shining lines of steel, rippling 
away toward the horizon straight as the leveled 
finger of God. On either side of the roadbed 
there was nothing but sand and sagebrush, slop¬ 
ing gently upward to the distant mountains, 
grim, saw-toothed ridges of rock, bare and 
brown and without a sign of verdure. 

[ 227 ] 







BUCK PARVIIT AND THE MOVIES 


| “What a frightful country!” sighed the 
tourist. 

“Huh!” said the brakeman. “You ought to 
see her in July.” 

“I don’t believe I’d care to,’’ said the tourist, 
rising. “Have you read the Sunday paper?” 

“Saw it this morning,” said the brakeman. 

The tourist threw his newspaper overboard 
and went inside to get a cooling drink. We need 
not follow him, our business being with the 
newspaper, settling to rest in the sand beside 
the track. 

Three days later a wrinkled little old man 
passed that way, urging a pair of heavily laden 
burros before him. 

“Well, well!” he cackled, slapping his knees. 
“Look here, Jimmy, at what we’ve found! A 
newspaper as sure as you’re born! Ain’t been 
here long or it would have got sunburned. Yes, 
sir, it’s fresh! Somebody must have throwed it 
otf the train. You reckon they knew we’d be 
along about this time? We’ll have to read all 
about what’s going on outside, won’t we, 
Jimmy? Yes, sir, you sure said an armful 
then; we’ll read her from kiver to kiver. Ain’t 
she a whopper though? Colored pictures too. 
Hon’t it beat the Dutch how they think up things 
to fill the newspapers, Jimmy? Don’t it 
though?” 

Still mumbling and talking to himself, the 
old man thrust the paper in among his cooking 
utensils and prodded his shaggy little beasts 
[ 228 ] 




DESEKT STUFF 


into motion. His course was not a direct one, 
for lie picked up bits of rock here and there and 
made wide detours to examine every new gully 
worn by the winter rains, for Uncle Jimmy 
Belcher was a prospector. 

The desert, they say, claims one man out of 
every three who visit it. There is an indefin¬ 
able charm in its far horizons and crystal-clear 
atmosphere, a mysterious lure in its wonderful 
starlit nights. Little by little the desert absorbs 
the chosen one and, when it has put its seal 
upon him, forgets him, for he is safe. He will 
never be content anywhere else and if he “goes 
inside” he will be forced to return. He is a 
desert rat for life. 

Uncle Jimmy Belcher was seventy years old, 
but he looked younger in spite of his wrinkles 
and sun-dried appearance. His limbs were still 
spry and every tooth in his head was sound. 

“How come I ain’t lost no teeth,” said 
Uncle Jimmy once when questioned upon the 
subject. “Because I scour ’em with gunpow¬ 
der twice a week reg’lar as clockwork. That’s 
a trick I learned from the Sioux Injuns when I 
was soldierin’ on the plains with old Crook. 
You never see an Injun with the toothache, did 
ye? No, and you won’t either. And then I use 
a plenty of eating tobacker and that preserves 
the gums.” 

Uncle .Ti mm y made an early camp. He un¬ 
packed his burros, built a fire of sagebrush and 
set about preparing his evening meal. As he 
[ 229 ] 









BUCK PARVIH AND THE MOVIES 


was squatting over the frying-pan, watching 
the bacon, the faint yelp of a coyote floated 
down from the hills, each quavering note as dis¬ 
tinct as the trill of a meadow-lark. Uncle 
Jimmy shook his fist at the gathering darkness. 

“Oh, I knowed you was out there some¬ 
where !” he said with the air of one resuming 
an ancient controversy. “I was expecting you 
to tune up about now. You ain’t fooled me 
none. You and your grandfathers before you 
have been a-setting round watching me nights 
and singing to me, but you ain’t got me yet and 
you never will. I’m going to fool you. I ain’t 
going to die on the desert; I’m going to die in 
a bed, I am, and be planted six feet deep in a 
sure-enough graveyard. Then what’ll you do, 
hey? Sing, you son-of-a-gun! I hear ye!” 

After supper Uncle Jimmy piled fresh fuel 
on the fire, spread his blankets and settled him¬ 
self to read the newspaper. The colored cover 
of the Sunday supplement attracted his atten¬ 
tion and he turned the pages to look at the pic¬ 
tures. 

‘ 6 Hello! ” he said. 4 ‘ Jimmy, them are camels, 
ain’t they? Why, sure they’re camels! Is it a 
circus maybe? We’ll have to look into this!” 

He began to read, spelling out the long words, 
and a puzzled frown nested between his bushy 
eyebrows. 

“This is coming pretty close home, Jimmy,” 
he muttered. “Yes, sir, pretty close home. 
‘ Thomas Smith, better known as Honest Tom, 
[ 230 ] 




DESERT STUEE 


an aged desert prospector.’ Honest Tom—we 
don’t know no such feller as that, do we? 

There’s Shorty Smith and Baldy Smith-- 

Hold on! Baldy’s dead. And ole Zack Smith; 

we know all them, Jimmy, but Honest Tom- 

No, he’s snrely a new one on ns! And it says 
he’s been here forty years! Well, ain’t that 
sing’lar! If we hadn’t seen it in the paper we 
never wonld have believed it, would we, Jimmy? 
No, I reckon not. We thought we knew all the 
old-timers too. Just goes to show what a 
mighty big place this desert is. Room enough 
for all. Oh, well, maybe he hung out up round 
Moharvey. ’ ’ 

A few moments later Uncle Jimmy grunted 
aloud and moved closer to the fire. This is 
what he read: 

How long Mr. Smith slept he does not know. 
He found himself sitting bolt upright beside 
the ashes of his camp fire, his revolver in his 
hand. The sky was filled with drifting clouds. 
The moon had risen and the faraway mountain 
peaks were flooded with silver. The desert it¬ 
self was bathed in a soft mellow light, so strong 
that a moving object was plainly visible at a 
distance of one hundred yards- 

“Hah!” said Uncle Jimmy. “Been on the 
desert forty years and can’t see no further than 
that—by moonlight ? We could see a horny toad 
turn over as far off as that the darkest night 
[ 231 ] 







BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


that ever shone, couldn’t we, Jimmy?” He re¬ 
turned to his reading: 

Sitting thus, with every nerve strained and 
every faculty alert, Smith became aware of a 
faint tinkling sound as of a bell at a great dis¬ 
tance. Turning his head to the east he made 
out a white object which seemed to be moving in 
his direction. The white object came nearer 
and Smith was able to distinguish several dark 
ones behind it. There was no sound save the 
faint tinkling of the bell. The prospector’s 
first thought was of strayed cattle, but he soon 
dismissed that explanation as improbable. 

Swinging steadily forward at an even gait, 
the ghostly leader bore down upon Smith’s 
camp. Towering gaunt and spectral in the half- 
light, it might have been a creature from an¬ 
other world. There was menace in its silent 
advance, a threat in the shadowy shapes which 
trooped behind it. 

The moon passed behind a cloud, and when it 
shone out again in all its brilliancy a gigantic 
white camel loomed above the ashes of the fire. 
Smith declares that the brute was so close that 
he saw the whites of its eyes and the tiny silver 
bell around its neck. 

Another stride and the prospector would have 
been crushed, but the instinct of self-preserva¬ 
tion intervened. Leaping to his feet, Smith 
emptied his revolver in the air. With a snort 
and a bellow the white camel veered to the 
[ 232 ] 




DESERT STUFF 


south, disappearing at incredible speed. The 
other camels followed their leader and Smith 
narrowly escaped death under the flying hoofs 
of the frantic creatures. Long after the desert 
had swallowed them up he heard the tinkling 
of the bell. . . . Smith says that he did not 
count the camels, but, judging by the tracks in 
the sand, he is convinced that there were no less 
than thirty full-grown animals in the herd. 

Uncle Jimmy dropped the paper and drew 
a long breath. 

“Goshamighty !” he said. * ‘ Thirty full- 

growed camels all in a bunch! Running loose 
and rampaging round nights too! Why, Jimmy, 
it’s getting so that it’s dangerous to be safe, 
ain’t it? Don’t you reckon we better go hobble 
them jacks so they won’t get stampeded? Yes, 
sir, let’s go do that very thing! Camels on 
the desert! Seems to me the Gover’ment had 
some of ’em down in Arizony once. Maybe it’s 
the same bunch, but how in thunder did they 
get across the Colorado River! Hey? S’pose 
they do come hiking along, are we a-going to 
lay still like a hoptoad and let a white camel 
tromp the eternal gizzard out of us? Not if 
we see him first, we ain’t. That would be a fine 
finish, wouldn’t it? The coyotes would get us 
for sure, then, wouldn’t they, Jimmy? Yes, 
they would for a fact. Are we going to be run 
over by a whole damn circus parade and not 
have nothing to say about it? We’re just full 
[ 233 ] 





BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


of them tricks, ain’t we, Jimmy? We’d begin 
shooting before that, wouldn’t we? Why, to be 
sure! And we didn’t shoot none in the air when 
we was with old man Crook, did we?” 

Three hours later the old man was still mum¬ 
bling by the fire, but he was not reading the 
paper. He was polishing an ancient service 
revolver, which he patted lovingly and ad¬ 
dressed as “Sitting Bull.” 

“Now, then, let ’em bring on their white 
camels!” said he as he slipped the heavy 
weapon back in its holster. “Let ’em come 
any hour of the day or night and we’re hooked 
for ’em. Are we going to be run out of this 
country by a stray menagerie? No, sir; we was 
here first, wasn’t we, Jimmy? We ain’t a-going 
to be stampeded by nothing, not while old Sit¬ 
ting Bull can spit a mouthful of lead! ’ ’ 

He stretched himself upon his blankets and 
closed his eyes. Once more the unseen coyote 
lifted his querulous plaint. 

“Yes, I s’pose you’re in with ’em,” mur¬ 
mured Uncle Jimmy sleepily, “but it won’t get 
ye nothing. The camel that tries to ketch us 
asleep better not wear no bell. You wait round 
a while and you’ll find out how camel meat 
tastes!” 


TV 


A special train of three cars twisted its way 
up the Cajon Pass, the big ten-wheeler coughing 
[ 234 ] 




DESERT STUFF 


over the steep grade. One of the cars was a 
Pullman sleeper; the others bore the red and 
gilt of Ward Brothers ’ Circus. 

In the Pullman the members of the Titan 
Company amused themselves in various ways. 
Myrtle Manners, the leading woman, read a 
novel and munched chocolates. Jack La Rue, 
the leading man, scowled out of the window at 
the scenery and said unflattering things about 
realism when carried to extremes. Charlie Du¬ 
pree, the camera man, pretended to listen to 
him, hut was really much more interested in a 
take-up box that needed repairing. In the 
drawing room, with the door locked against in¬ 
truders, Jimmy Montague, author, director and 
sometimes actor, wrestled with his desert scen¬ 
ario, a delicate little figment of the imagination 
introducing love, jealousy, treachery, hate, and 
a few other human emotions besides battle, 
murder, sudden death and camels, but particu¬ 
larly camels. At the other end of the car a 
lively poker game was in session. Buck Parvin, 
shin in his hands and an unlighted cigarette de¬ 
pending from his lower lip, watched the shifting 
chips apathetically. 

“Why don’t you set in and do yourself some 
good?” asked Ben Leslie. 

“I couldn’t pay the first installment on a 
postage stamp.” 

“Broke! What did you do with that fifty- 
dollar bonus?” 

Buck yawned and stretched. 

[ 235 ] 






BUCK PARVIH AND THE MOVIES 


“Easy come, easy go, as the soldier boy said 
when he bio wed his month’s pay in one night 
—the whole thirteen bucks.” 

“Did you see that white camel?” inquired 
Ben. 

“Uh-huh. I give him the once-over when 
they loaded him into the car. You’ve been 
slandering that ole boy. He went aboard like 
a lamb. ’ ’ 

“He always does,” said Ben, “but that ain’t 
saying he’ll unload like one. Has Jim told you 
anything about the stunt yet?” 

Buck nodded and lighted his cigarette. 

“I’m the fair-haired boy in this picture,” 
said he. “I got the part of the villain. So far 
as I can make out from what Jim tells me, I’m 
jealous of La Rue. That’s why I steal the 
camels and leave Jack and Myrtle afoot in the 
desert and forty miles from water. Jim has 
got a fool notion about using a telescope lens 
and getting a picture of me beating it, with the 
entire bunch strung out behind single tile. It 
can’t be done. How am I going to herd them 
camels in a straight line, I ask you ? ’ ’ 

“That’ll be easy,” said Leslie. “Just ride 
Aladdin and the others will follow.” 

“Well, I’ll ride him all right,” said Buck 
boastfully. “He don’t look like no Bengal tiger 
to me.” 

“Wait,” said Ben quietly. “He hasn’t 
started yet.” 

“He better not start with me,” remarked 
[ 236 ] 




DESERT STUFF 


Buck. “I got my ole smoke-pole along and the 
first time Mr. Aladdin gets fresh—whang! right 
on the crust. I ’ll tame him or cave in his roof! ’ ’ 

Daggett is a sleepy little town on the edge of 
the desert, where sensations are few and far 
between. The arrival of the Titan special was 
a great event to the elderly gentlemen sun-dry¬ 
ing themselves in front of the general store, 
and several of them mustered up sufficient am¬ 
bition to walk across to the sidetrack where the 
camels were being prodded down a cattle chute 
into a corral. 

“Is this a circus, mister?” asked one of them. 

“Not yet,” said Ben Leslie, his eye upon 
Aladdin, who was being coaxed down the chute 
by Tim Kelly and three men from the animal 
farm. “Not yet, but stick around, old timer. 
L The show is liable to start at any time.” 

A weatherbeaten native stood beside the cor¬ 
ral, leaning his elbows upon the top rail. He 
was industriously chewing tobacco and the 
movements of his jaw were communicated to 
his patriarchal white beard, which hung down 
inside the fence, waving gently like a flag of 
truce. 

Aladdin, his feet on solid ground once more, 
blew a long whistling breath through his nos¬ 
trils and sidled along the barrier, soft-footed 
as a cat, the very picture of innocence. As he 
came abreast of the tobacco chewer his white 
neck darted out with the speed of a striking 
snake, there was a flash of yellow teeth, a sav- 
[ 237 ] 






BUCK PARVIK AND THE MOVIES 


age click and the native leaped backward with 
a scream in which acute pain, astonishment and 
rage were mingled. Aladdin continued on his 
way, his eyes half closed as if in meditation. 
Several wisps of white hair hung from the cor¬ 
ner of his mouth. 

“Where’s the town marshal?” howled the 
outraged citizen. ‘ 4 That there white cam-u-el 
bit the whiskers right off my face! I’ll sue your 
show for damages!” 

“ Ye’ll sue nothing,” said the alert Tim Kelly. 
“Kape yer whishkers on the right side of the 
fence. Ye had no business tor-r-mentin , the 
poor dumb baste wid the sight of so much al¬ 
falfa!” 

The laugh which this sally raised was short 
lived. A terrific hubbub arose in one corner 
of the corral. Aladdin had discovered Sharkey 
and was resenting the latter’s presence with 
every means at his command. The animal farm 
attendants leaped into the squealing, bubbling 
melee and at last succeeded in forcing Aladdin 
into a neutral corner, where he remained quiv¬ 
ering with rage. Buck Parvin was a pop-eyed 
spectator. 

“Thunder and guns!” he murmured. “He 
pulled enough whiskers out of that old guy’s 
face to stuff a sofa pillow!” 

“Yes, anddie came within an ace of getting 
his nose,” said Ben Leslie pleasantly. “Did 
you bring that suit of armor?” 

“No,” said Buck, “I didn’t, but I’ve got 
[ 238 ] 




DESERT STUFF 


something just as good.” He patted a suspi¬ 
cious bulge over his right hip. “If you think 
I’m going to let that white hyena bite me and 
get away without a receipt for it you’re crazy. 
Acting is one thing, but being cannibalized by 
a camel is another. I declare myself right now, 
and it goes too. If that brute bites me I’ll get 
him!” 

“You better not hurt that camel,” warned 
Leslie. 

“Huh!” grunted Buck. “Put it the other 
way round. That camel better not hurt me.” 


Y 

An hour later a strange procession passed 
down the single street and out into the desert, 
headed by James Montague and Jack La Rue, 
the former in his shirtsleeves and the latter in 
a flowing white burnoose and sandals. Most of 
the actors appeared in costume, but Buck Par- 
vin carried his burnoose over his arm and his 
sandals in his pocket. 

Behind the members of the company came 
the camels, escorted by Tim Kelly and his as¬ 
sistants from the animal farm, also in bur¬ 
nooses. Aladdin stalked in front, a competent 
hand upon his bridle, and a rickety express 
wagon brought up the rear, loaded with 
“props.” Ben Leslie was on the seat with the 
[ 239 ] 





BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


driver. Behind the wagon trooped the entire 
population of Daggett, silent and cnrions. 

4 4 Look here, Jim, do I work with that white 
camel ?” demanded La Rue. 

“You don’t have to ride him, if that’s what 
you mean; hut he’s in some scenes with you. ’ ’ 

6 ‘ Those scenes will have to be cut out, ’ ’ said 
La Rue with firmness. 

“What’s the matter now, Jack? More artis¬ 
tic temperament?” 

“No, common sense. That white camel is 
vicious, Jim. You saw what he did to that old 
man. You haven’t any right to ask an actor 
to take a chance with a savage brute like that. 
Suppose he disfigures some one for life?” 

“But he won’t bite you,” soothed Monta¬ 
gue. 

‘‘ That camel will bite anybody! ’ ’ snapped the 
leading man. “ I ’ll quit the company before I ’ll 
work in a scene with him. I don’t want to get 
my chin bit off, Jim.” 

“But, confound it, we’ve got to use him!” 
stormed Montague. “He’s the bull-cow of the 
herd. They ’ll all follow him! ’ ’ 

“They will, eh?” La Rue stopped and tossed 
the hood of his burnoose back over his shoul¬ 
ders. “Wait a second, I’ve got an idea.” 

“It’ll die of lonesomeness,” was the sarcastic 
rejoinder. 

“See how this strikes you,” urged La Rue. 
“The way the picture is doped out now, Buck 
is one of our own people and he gets up in the 
[ 240 ] 




DESERT STUFF 


night and steals the camels out of jealousy. 
That’s always good stuff for a heavy, but it 
doesn’t make enough use of the white camel. 
Why not have Buck a sort of a desert thief? 
He owns this white camel, see? The brute has 
a peculiar influence over other camels—they 
follow him the same as if they’re hypnotized. 
Buck knows about this white camel’s power, 
and-” 

“I’ve got it!” cried Montague, suddenly in¬ 
spired. “You’ve struck a great idea there 
and you don’t know what to do with it. It’ll 
change the whole picture, but it’s worth it. I’ll 
play the heavy—Buck can’t do it. He can 
double me in the riding scenes. I’m a Bedouin 
chief, sort of an outlaw. Poor as Job’s turkey, 
but I’ve got this white camel. You’re a rich 
trader and we’re both in love with Myrtle. I 
steal the camels from your caravan because I 
want to get you out of the way—want you to 
die on the desert. I come riding by at night 
on my white camel and your camels get up and 
follow him. Great moonlight effect there—film 
stained blue—camels kneeling in the foreground 
■—tents behind them—lovely! In the morning 
you start out with your party to walk to the 
nearest water—we’ll have to dope out some 
excuse for your not having any. Oh, yes, I can 
empty the barrels before I steal the camels. 
We’ll make a lot of scenes of you and Myrtle 
on the desert, after the others have all died one 
by one. You get weaker and weaker and finally 
[ 241 ] 




BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


give up in despair. Then we cut to the tents 
again. I come back on foot to see how much 
merchandise has been left behind. On the 
ground I find a shawl—the same one that I 
give Myrtle in an earlier scene. See the punch 
developing, Jack? I didn’t know that Myrtle 
was with you and all at once I realize that in 
trying to put you out of the way I’ve con¬ 
demned her to death as well. A great chance 
for some real acting there, what? I go crazy 
with grief and the old E. E. Morse thing and 
rush out on foot to find her.” 

“Why all this 4 on-foot’ stuff?” asked La Rue 
suspiciously. 

“For the sake of the finish! I find you in the 
nick of time; I see that you’re the one she 
loves. Big renunciation scene. I give you my 
water bottle and her my farewell blessing and 
die of thirst while you make a getaway with 
the girl. How’s that ? ’ ’ 

“Fine—for you!” growled La Rue. “That 
ain’t a heavy; that’s a lead. I give you the idea 
and you hog the picture! ’ ’ 

Montague did not hear him. He was already 
dismantling his scenario and rebuilding it along 
other lines. 

4 4 The first thing we ’ll make is the silhouette 
run,” said Montague to Tim Kelly. “I want 
to test the camels on this following stunt. That 
ridge over there is the very place to pull it. ’ ’ 

44 Good enough,” said the chief animal man, 
[ 242 ] 




DESERT STUFF 


“but I misdoubt whether our camels will follow 
this white man-eater.” 

“We’ll have enough without our four,” said 
Montague. 

The saddling of Aladdin was not accom¬ 
plished without bloodshed. One of the attend¬ 
ants relaxed his vigilance for an instant and 
suffered a painful nip on the shoulder. 

“Aisy!” said Tim Kelly. “I’ve been told 
that Billy Ward starves his livestock and I be- 
lave it. ’’ 

1 4 Now, Buck, ’ ’ said Montague, 11 1 want you to 
ride over about half a mile and then turn and go 
straight along that ridge against the skyline. 
The other camels will follow, so you won’t have 
to worry about them. I’ll keep these people 
back out of the way so there won’t be anybody 
within half a mile of you to make Aladdin nerv¬ 
ous. Take your time about it and finish with 
a run.” 

“I’ll do my best, Jim,” said Buck, whose eyes 
were fixed upon the attendant’s shoulder; “but 
I warn you, if this camel bites me his name is 
mud. I’ll get him sure!” 

“Rats! You talk like a child! Keep your 
legs back out of the way and he can’t hurt 
you. ’ ’ 

4 4 The deuce he can’t! ” sneered Buck. “ He’s 
got a neck made out of rubber! ’ ’ 

“All set!” said Tim Kelly. “The noble ship 
o’ the desert is ready to sail.” 

Three men held Aladdin’s head while Buck 

[ 243 ] 






BUCK PAKYIN AND THE MOVIES 


swung himself between the high horns of the 
camel saddle and thrust his sandals into the 
stirrups. 

“Better say good-by to us, folks,” he called. 
‘ ‘ One of us might not come back. Leggo of his 
head. Hup, you!” 

Aladdin heaved himself to his feet with a 
racking series of convulsions, whistled through 
his nostrils, shook his head from side to side, 
made a futile though earnest attempt to reach 
one of Buck’s knees and then lumbered forward, 
the circus camels following in his wake. 

“Fine!” said the director. “Charlie, be 
ready to catch ’em as soon as they straighten 
out along the ridge. Get as much of the fore¬ 
ground as you can and mighty little sky.” 

“Even so,” said the camera man. 

“Buck doesn’t seem to be having any trou¬ 
ble,” remarked Montague. “It’s the first time 
I ever knew him to kick about a riding stunt. 
Said he’d kill the camel if he got bit. ’ ’ 

“Oh, well,” said Leslie reassuringly, “you 
know how Buck is. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, but 
he likes to talk. ’ ’ 

The string of camels grew small in the dis¬ 
tance, turned at a right angle and swung up the 
ridge, the white leader plodding along at a se¬ 
date pace. 

“That’s the stuff!” said Montague. “They 
ought to be moving a little faster than that 
though. Why doesn’t he hurry ’em up a little ? ’ ’ 

Evidently the same idea occurred to Buck, 

[ 244 ] 





DESERT STUFF 


for he was seen to flap his elbows and kick 
Aladdin violently in the ribs. The white neck 
curved backward in protest and at the same in¬ 
stant the camel made a mighty leap, lurched in 
his stride and fell headlong. Before his knees 
crumpled under him the other camels were in 
full flight, and the wind bore the short, crashing 
report of a heavy revolver. 

6 6 He shot him! Buck shot him!’’ yelled Ben 
Leslie, starting to run. 

The population of Daggett surged forward 
like a wave. 

“Out of the picture! Keep out of the pic¬ 
ture !’ ’ bellowed Montague. 

“Too late,” said the imperturbable Dupree. 
“Ben spilled the beans. He cut across in front 
just as the camels started to scatter . 77 

All things considered, it was a very complete 
case of circumstantial evidence. 

Ben Leslie and Jimmy Montague, distancing 
the field and finishing a stride apart, found 
Aladdin dead upon the ground with a ragged 
hole in the side of his head. Buck Parvin, a 
trifle white about the lips, was sitting beside 
the body of the camel, examining an ugly wound 
below his right knee. 

“You fool! What did you shoot him for!” 
panted Leslie. 

“Me!” said Buck blankly. “I never did no 
such thing! I was booting him to make him run 
and he reached round and took a chunk out of 
[ 245 ] 





BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


my leg. Just as lie got me—Pow! and down lie 
goes like a landslide! I lit on my head and 
was sort of knocked silly for a minute, and 
when I came to I looked all round, but I couldn’t 
see a thing. That’s straight goods.” 

Montague shook his head. 

“It sounds fishy to me. You said you’d do 
it if he bit you. Let me see that gun! ’ ’ 

Buck handed over his weapon with a sickly 
grin. 

“Jim,” said he, “I was only bluffing about 
that; honest, I was. I’m telling you right; I 
didn’t shoot him and I don’t know who did.” 

By this time the audience was arriving. The 
citizens of Daggett surrounded the dead camel 
and filled the air with ejaculations and profane 
comment. 

“He said one of ’em mightn’t come back!” 

“Don’t look like he’d bite anybody else in a 
hurry. ’ ’ 

“ Deader’n a nit!” 

“Camels is expensive critters, ain’t they?” 

“Been me, I’d just banged him on the head 
with the butt. No need to kill him. Shame, I 
say!” 

“Loaded with cartridges,” said Montague, 
“and one empty.” 

“Well, I can explain that,” said Buck, look¬ 
ing about him at a circle of accusing faces. 
“I loaded her because I thought I might get a 
shot at a coyote or something. When she’s 
loaded I always carry her with the trigger on 
[ 246 ] 




DESERT STUFF 


an empty. She’s safest that way. Jim, on the 
level, yon don’t think I shot that poor ole camel, 
do yon? Ben, yon know I wouldn’t do a trick 
like that, no matter how had he hit me. I was 
just talking, that’s all; I-” 

44 There’s no need for yon to talk any more, 
Parvin,” said the director. 44 You’ve killed an 
animal that was worth a lot of money and 
you’ve ruined a fine picture. You’re through, 
so far as working with this company is con¬ 
cerned. ’ ’ 

44 Canned, am I?” Buck rose and stripped off 
the hurnoose, which he threw on the ground at 
Montague’s feet. 44 Seems to me, Jim, we’ve 
worked together long enough for you to give me 
the benefit of the doubt. No?” 

He laughed recklessly. 

44 Oh, well, it’s all in a lifetime, I reckon. The 
truth ain’t good enough for some people. You 
might do me one favor though: Keep that gun 
till you get cooled out and sensible, and then 
let any of these old-timers tell you whether she’s 
been fired lately.” 

Montague turned on his heel without a word 
or a look. 

Buck was left alone with Aladdin. He looked 
down at the sprawling legs and the grotesquely 
twisted neck and shook his head. 

44 You poor ole son-of-a-gun!” said Buck. 44 I 
didn’t like a bone in your head and I talked 
rough to you, but I wouldn’t have bushwhacked 
you like this!” 


[ 247 ] 






BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


r -<sr 


VI 

The desert moon shone down on two men sit¬ 
ting upon a baggage truck in front of the depot. 

* 4 It’s too good an idea to waste,” said Monta¬ 
gue. “Of course it won’t be quite as effective 
without the white camel, but the picture can be 
worked out some other way. It’s up to us to 
make as much as we can out of the trip. What 
do you think Ward will soak us for Aladdin ?” 

“Enough,” said Ben Leslie, “and he’ll prob¬ 
ably want to kill me. Billy thought a lot of that 
white camel.” 

“Have you seen Buck?” 

“Yes. He’s down at the saloon, telling his 
troubles and waiting for the midnight train. 
I lent him ten dollars and then he offered to 
kick me. ’ ’ 

“Still denying it, is he?” 

“Absolutely! That was why he wanted to 
fight. You know, Jim, it ain’t like Buck to 
lie, and he sticks to it that somebody else fired 
the shot.” 

“No chance!” said Montague. “Didn’t he 
say he’d kill the camel if he bit him? Didn’t 
he have an empty shell in his gun? If anybody 
else was round there, why didn’t we see him?” 

“Good evening, gentlemen!” piped a thin 
voice. A small figure approached, coming from 
the direction of the corrals. “Here’s Uncle 
[ 248 ] 




DESEKT STUFF 


Jimmy back again! The coyotes ain’t got him 

yet and they never will- Oh, excuse me! I 

didn’t notice you was strangers! ’ ’ 

“That’s all right,” said Leslie carelessly. 
“How’re you making it?” 

“Fair,” said Uncle Jimmy. “Fair to mid¬ 
dlin’. Can’t complain. I still got my jacks and 
my outfit, and that’ll be enough to bury me 
when the time comes. Just got back from a 
trip. I see they captured them wild camels; 
got a whole corral full of ’em over yonder.” 

“Wild camels?” said Montague, suddenly in¬ 
terested. 

“Why, yes, wasn’t you readin’ about them 
wild camels in the newspapers?” The little 
old man cackled and slapped his knees. “By 
jocks, they never would have got ’em if it hadn’t 
been for me! Yes, sir, they got Uncle Jimmy 
to thank for that job!” 

Ben Leslie nudged Montague. 

“What job was that?” 

“Why, rounding up them camels,” said 
Uncle Jimmy, sitting down upon the baggage 
truck. “You see, I was warned about ’em. 
Out here about a week ago I picked up a news¬ 
paper and there was a whole page in it about 
them camels. It seems they had a leader, a 
big white feller, and he used to roam round 
nights trying to find somebody to tromp on. 
Come awful dost to getting a feller named Tom 
Smith. I knowed there was only one thing to 
do and that was to keep my eye peeled for that 
[ 249 ] 







BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


white camel, him being the leader and havin’ it 
in for prospectors, as you might say. I was 
afraid he’d come loping along some night, flat¬ 
ten me out like a flapjack and leave me for the 
coyotes. I got so I’d set up waiting for him, 
but nothing come of it. 

“When I got pretty dost to town I figgered 
that I was safe and sort of forgot about them 
wild camels. This afternoon I was out here a 
ways, the other side of a little rise of ground, 
following up some float. My jacks was over 
about a mile away in a draw. All of a sudden 
I heard a noise and I looked up—I was on my 
hands and knees, gentlemen—and there was 
that white camel right on top of me! Yes, sir, 
and what’s more there was a ghost ridin’ him — 
I seen him as plain as I see you.” 

‘ * And so you ’re the-’ ’ Montague stopped, 

for Leslie nudged him again. 

“Don’t you see he’s crazy?” whispered Ben. 
“Let him talk! Gro on, old-timer. You saw the 
camel and the ghost riding him. What did you 
do then?” 

“Why, gentlemen,” said Uncle Jimmy, “I 
grabbed for ole Sitting Bull—that’s the gun I 
had when I was fightin’ Injuns with Crook—and 
I cut her loose and down he came like a thou¬ 
sand of brick. I don’t rightly know what hap¬ 
pened after that because it just rained camels 
all round me. There must have been a million 
of ’em and they come from everywhere! I 
knowed they was after me for shooting that 
[ 250 ] 





DESERT STUFF 


white leader, and I bet no jackrabbit conld have 
ont-rnn me gettin’ away from there. Yes, sir, 

I certainly sifted some sand-” 

Ben Leslie chuckled and leaped from the 
truck, disappearing in the direction of the sa¬ 
loon. Uncle Jimmy paused, startled. 

“I might have knowed nobody would believe 
me,” said he. “But I didn’t dream it, else how 
come they to have a whole corral full of camels 
over yonder? And the thing that gets me is 
where did all them people come from so quick? 

I looked back once and-” 

Sounds of argument came out of the dark¬ 
ness. 

“You leggo my arm, Ben Leshlie!” said a 
thick voice. “You ain’t no frien’ of mine! 
You said I shot poor ol’ ’Laddin—you said it 
and Montague said it. I never hurt dumb ali- 
mal my whole life! Leggo my arm! ’ ’ 

“It’s all right, Buck!” Ben’s voice rang out 
cheerfully. “You didn’t shoot him; it was an 
old nut of a prospector. We’ve got him over 
here at the depot.” 

“Wha—wha’s that?” roared Buck, immedi¬ 
ately militant. “You got him—fell’r shot ’Lad- 
din? Killed that ol’ white camel? Where is 
he ? Show’m to me, Ben! We ’ll fix him! ’ ’ 
Uncle Jimmy Belcher slid off the baggage 
truck with surprising agility for one of his ripe 
years and backed swiftly away into the shade 
of the depot building, fumbling at his hip. Buck, 
coming up at a run and being in no condition 
[ 251 ] 




BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


to distinguish friend from foe, hurled himself 
upon Montague with a triumphant whoop. 

‘‘Here he is! Fetch a rope, Ben! Doggone 
you—you won’t—murder no more—movin' 
pitcher—camelsh!” And at every other word 
he banged Montague’s head upon the baggage 
truck. 

Uncle Jimmy Belcher, pausing at the far end 
of the freight shed, heard the request for a rope 
and the uproar which followed it. He did not 
linger, but slipped inconspicuously round the 
corner and faded away in the direction of the 
corrals, Sitting Bull unlimbered for immediate 
action. 

‘ ‘ Too darn much going on round here to suit 
us, Jimmy!” he wheezed. “What say we git 
our jacks and leave this fool town flat on its 
back? Yes, sir, let’s do that! Too many camels 
and eediots in Daggett this evening! You 
reckon we better hurry some? Why, yes, 
Jimmy, you surely ain’t forgot how to run, 
have you?” 

“Well, o’ course, Jim,” said Buck, rocking 
unsteadily upon his high heels, but slightly 
sobered by violent exercise, “you’ve ’pologized 
to me and I’ve ’pologized to you and they ain’t 
no more to be said. You fired me this afternoon 
for killin’ a white camel and I bumped your 
head just now, and it turns out that we was both 
after another fell’r and he got away. You got 
[ 252 ] 




DESERT STUEF 


a sore head and I got a sore leg. That makes 
tis even. No hard feelings? Shake!” 

“No hard feelings,’’ said Montague, touching 
a lump back of his ear. “I’m sorry I accused 
you of shooting the camel, Buck, but the evi¬ 
dence-” 

“She did look bad, for a fact!” said Buck 
magnanimously. 

“You’d better go to bed now,” advised Mon¬ 
tague. “You’ve got a hard day’s work ahead 
of you.” 

“I still got my li’l ol’ job?” asked Buck. 

“Yes, and to-morrow we’ll pick out a camel 
that won’t bite.” 

“Nothin’ could be fairer than that—* 
abs’looly!” said Buck, making a dignified exit 
upon the arm of Ben Leslie. 

Jimmy Montague remained seated on the bag¬ 
gage truck, wrapped in thought. He was patch¬ 
ing together the old, old hodge-podge of cause 
and effect. 

“By golly!” said he at last, “I’d like to get 
my hands on the fellow who wrote that article 
about the wild camels! He’s responsible for 
everything!” 

Three shadowy figures slipped into the desert 
and headed toward the east. The faint night 
breeze carried a yelping, snarling chorus. Uncle 
Jimmy Belcher smiled as he whacked his burros 
with a barrel stave. 

“Got a reg’lar camp meeting to-night, ain’t 

[2531 





BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


you?” he cackled. “Well, you can thank me 
for it. Camel meat’s pretty good, hey? Jimmy, 
what say we sleep out here somewhere ? Why, 
seem’ that they’ve got the rest of them wild 
camels hived up in a corral I reckon it would be 
safe enough. Yes, sir, this is the place for us— 
right out in the sand. We never did care much 
for city life nohow.” 


[ 254 ] 




AUTHOR! AUTHOR! 


D AVID SELIGrMAN, vice-president of 
the Titan Company and a prince in the 
moving-picture realm, had reached his 
position of eminence solely by reason 
of his ability to keep abreast of the times. No 
other branch of industry has developed with 
such astounding rapidity, but the changes, as 
they came, found David in step with the drum¬ 
beat of progress. 

“Do something new, and do it first!” was 
his motto; and he clung to it, though he drove 
directors to the point of emotional insanity. 
From his office on Fifth Avenue, in New York, 
he kept an eagle eye on the field, and if he could 
not always be the standard bearer he was sel¬ 
dom far behind the flag as it moved forward. 

A film pioneer, he had watched the evolu¬ 
tion of the moving picture from the days of its 
very raw infancy, when anything that could be 
thrown on a screen was good enough to get the 
money, and the cost of photography was the 
largest item of expense. Then the novelty 
wore off and audiences began to demand some- 
[ 255 ] 






BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


thing more than a plotless jumble of pictures. 
David took thought and issued a proclamation 
to his managers and directors. 

“We’ve got to quit making up these picture 
plays as we go along,” said he. “Up to now 
we have been getting away with it, because peo¬ 
ple didn’t believe it possible to make photo¬ 
graphs that move; but they come to see ’em 
and are satisfied. The game is getting too big 
for the bunk stuff; the public won’t stand for 
a film without a story in it. Art—that’s what 
they want; and we’ll give it to ’em. Let’s have 
real plays and real actors from now on.” 

Company payrolls doubled and trebled, ac¬ 
tors were enticed from the stage, and scenario 
departments came into existence. Art entered 
into the making of moving-picture films, and 
this sufficed for many years; but original ideas 
became scarce, competition grew keen and the 
flag moved again. 

“Names!” said David Seligman. “That’s 
what they want now; good stories by regular 
writers and names to carry ’em. Some of the 
other fellows have been dramatizing novels 
and getting away with it—old moth-eaten nov¬ 
els that are out of date. A dead writer is no 
business. Me for one that’s alive!” 

A few days later Seligman touched an elec¬ 
tric button and summoned his secretary, Marco 
Lazarus. 

“You don’t read much fiction—novels—do 
you, Marco V ’ he began. 

[ 256 ] 




author! author! 


“Where would I get any time to read?” 
asked Marco. 

“You should take time,” said David reprov¬ 
ingly. “You got your nights to yourself.” 

“A good musical comedy show is better than 
any hook,” said Marco with the air of one dis¬ 
missing a subject. 

“So you think,” said David. “Now this 
book here”—he touched a flaring cloth-bound 
volume as he spoke—“which was written by a 
party named Peckinpaw—Marcellus M. Peckin- 
paw—maybe you never even heard the name of 
it—eh?” 

Marco shook his head. 

“The name of it is ‘The Lure of the West,’ ” 
said Seligman. “I am surprised at you, Marco. 
It’s a best seller and they advertise it every¬ 
where, like a circus. Everybody is talking 
about it. I read it the other night and I don’t 
wonder at it at all. It’s got more action than 
a dog fight. In every chapter there is shoot¬ 
ing. ... Do you know any authors, Marco?” 

“I seen one once at a theater,” said Marco, 
“but nobody could have told it to look at him.” 

‘ 4 Did you think maybe he would carry a pen 
behind his ear?” asked Seligman. “Now this 
Marcellus M. Peckinpaw is a little man with 
glasses and a cough. If you ask me I would 
say he is absolutely the extreme end of the 
limit. ’ ’ 

“How do you know he is?” 

“Didn’t I have him to dinner last night at the 

[ 257 ] 




BUCK PARVI 1ST AND THE MOVIES 


Astor? And didn’t I sign him up for the mov¬ 
ing-picture rights to his novel? Five thousand 
dollars it cost me before he would do business 
at all. And what do you think this party in¬ 
sists we shall do?” 

“How should I know?” Authors and their 
ways were beyond Marco. 

“I had to write it in the contract that he must 
be consulted about making the picture; and 
that, Marco, was a compromise. What this 
Marcellus M. Peckinpaw wanted was that we 
should let him take full charge and do the di¬ 
recting himself—and he never saw the inside 
of a studio in his life. Think of that for nerve! 
He says that we are liable to spoil the atmos¬ 
phere of the book!” 

6 ‘ Atmosphere! What’s that ? ’ 9 

“I don’t know exactly, but in this case I 
think it is mostly gunpowder and cowboys and 
Indians. All the Indians I ever saw had plenty 
of atmosphere. You couldn’t stay in the same 
room with one.” 

“Huh!” said Marco scornfully. “For five 
thousand dollars he should worry about a lit¬ 
tle thing like atmosphere!” 

“Just what I told him—absolutely; but he 
would not sign any other way. He was going 
away mad and I had to meet his terms. I am 
paying his expenses to Los Angeles. I will 
advise Montague about the atmosphere, and 
Montague will get along with him somehow.” 

“Montague will be sore,” prophesied Marco. 

[ 258 ] 




author! author! 


“Montague is always sore at this office,’’ 
said David. ‘ 1 He kicks more than all the other 
directors we got; but he also delivers the goods. 
I sent him a night letter that he should get 
the book and read it and have a five-reel sce¬ 
nario ready when this Peckinpaw gets out there. 
. . . Would you like to read the book, Marco?” 

“I’d rather see the picture,” was the cau¬ 
tious reply. 

“So would I,” said Seligman. “Montague 
will make improvements on the story. He al¬ 
ways does. What I can’t understand is how 
a man living in New Jersey knows so much 
about cowboys and Indians. The book is full 
of ’em, Marco!” 

“There ain’t no Indians in New Jersey,” 
said the secretary skeptically. 

“Not outside of Princeton,” said Seligman; 
“but this Peckinpaw, now, he knows regular 
Indians—feathers and yellow paint. He told 
me so. And he writes about a cowboy so nat¬ 
ural that you almost see him. With every¬ 
body reading the book and talking about it, a 
five-reeler should get the money.” 

“Montague will be sore,” repeated Marco. 
“You know he thinks he shall be the whole pig 
or none.” 

“Take a letter,” said David. “You see, 
Marco, in order to land this Marcellus M. Peck¬ 
inpaw I had to let him think that Montague 
would be a kind of office boy to him. I will ex¬ 
plain to Montague that he must humor the fel- 
[ 259 ] 




BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


low as much as possible. They will fix it some¬ 
how. ’ ’ 


n 

Ben Leslie and Buck Parvin, property man 
and moving-picture cowpuncher, were loafing in 
the shade outside the Titan Company’s studio 
building, smoking brown-paper cigarettes and 
exchanging reminiscences. 

“And so I told him,” said Buck, “pretty 
much what I thought of him. ‘You are the 
most ignorant guy I ever saw in my life,’ I 
says. ‘You don’t know nothing and always 
will; and you ought to be careful or the hawgs 
will eat you up. You come round here telling 
me my business and some day I will get an¬ 
noyed and hit you. I don’t like your shape, 
your feet don’t track, and there’s something 
wrong with that wart on top of your shoul¬ 
ders.’ ‘You mean my head!’ he says, kind of 
sore. ‘Head!’ I says. ‘Don’t kid yourself, 
Percival! That ain’t no head. Your neck just 
naturally growed out and haired over.’ And 
that was how it started. He picked up a whip- 
pletree-” 

Buck’s narrative suffered an interruption in 
the shape of a small, narrow-shouldered gen¬ 
tleman, at sight of whom Buck’s eyes and 
mouth opened and remained fixed in a combi¬ 
nation stare and gape. 

[ 260 ] 





author! author! 


The stranger wore a slate-colored corduroy; 
riding suit, reinforced with leather; pigskin 
puttees; a broad gray sombrero, very new and 
stiff as to crown and brim; a soft white shirt; a 
flowing tie, and immense round spectacles with 
heavy rims of dark tortoise-shell. His fea¬ 
tures were mild enough, but the spectacles im¬ 
parted to his countenance somewhat the look 
of a startled ground owl. 

“I—I beg your pardon/ ’ said the stranger, 
enunciating very clearly and peering at Buck’s 
chaps and green silk shirt; “I beg your par-’ 
don, but perhaps you can inform me where I 

shall find a Mister—Mister-” He paused 

and, fumbling in an inner pocket, drew out an 
envelope, glanced at it and resumed: “Oh, yes 
—a Mr. James Montague. I have a letter of 
introduction to him.” 

4 ‘ Straight ahead, first turning to the left and 
down the hall,” said Leslie. 

“Thanks very much,” said the stranger, and 
entered the building. Ben and Buck exchanged 
amused glances. 

“Name it and you can have it,” said Ben. 

“Thanks very much, old chap,” mimicked 
Buck, “but I ain’t collected any curios since 
I was a kid. Did you pipe that make-up? And 
I bet I saw something that you missed: The lit¬ 
tle sucker had a handkerchief up his sleeve an’ 
a watch strapped on his wrist. He did, on the 
level!” 

“And I saw something that you missed,” said 

[ 261 ] 




BUCK PABVIN AND THE MOVIES 


Leslie. “I got a slant at that envelope and it 
was from the New York office—old man Selig- 
man’s private stationery.’ ’ 

“No! Maybe the high boss is tryin’ to saw 
off a comedian on Jim. Or maybe this is a 
shipment to the animal farm, Ben. Him and 
that long-nosed anteater ought to be great lit¬ 
tle pals—eh?” 

Ben thumped his knee, with a sudden ex¬ 
clamation. 

“I’ve got him pegged, Buck! You know that 
five-reel Western picture that Jim has been 
working on for a week—the one he’s making 
over from a novel? Remember how he was 
cussing round here about Seligman shipping 
the author out to help us put it on? Well, this 
is the fellow. Jim has been expecting him.” 

“That little billy-owl?” said Buck. “Get 
out! ’ ’ 

“I’ll bet you the drinks. The round eye¬ 
glasses tipped his mitt. Authors wear ’em be¬ 
cause they think it gives ’em that literary 
look. ’ ’ 

“Him—write a Western novel?” scoffed 
Buck. “Why, where would he get it? It can’t 
be done!” 

In this Buck was mistaken. It had been done. 
Marcellus M. Peckinpaw—for it was indeed 
that renowned genius—had written a Western 
novel and a best seller. Western critics—crude 
fellows of the baser sort, no doubt—had hinted 
that Mr. Peckinpaw’s knowledge of the noble 
[ 262 ] 




author! author! 


savage had been gleaned from the works of 
Mr. Fenimore Cooper. They had also pointed 
out that his cowpnnchers conversed in a dia¬ 
lect unknown on land or sea; but these innuen¬ 
does were unfair as well as unkind. 

Marcellus M. Peckinpaw knew his West and 
freely admitted it whenever possible. He had 
made one trip from ocean to ocean; men have 
written volumes on less. True, it was warm 
and dusty in the Pullman after the train left 
Kansas City and the curtains had been down 
during the daylight part of the journey; but, 
in spite of this slight drawback, Mr. Peckin¬ 
paw had managed to see a great deal of the 
sandy Southwest. 

At Albuquerque, for instance, he had spent 
a fascinating half hour in careful inspection 
of the wooden-faced, pottery-peddling abo¬ 
rigines. The Indians had also inspected Mr. 
Peckinpaw; so the benefits, if any, had been 
mutual. 

He had lingered one whole week in a tourist 
hotel on the Pacific Coast, dressing for dinner 
each evening and absorbing local color and at¬ 
mosphere. Then, returning home by another 
route, he had seen the broad-hatted and bow- 
legged sons of Wyoming; in fact, had even 
spoken with one on the depot platform at Green 
Eiver. 

Nor was this all—far from it! “The Lure 
of the West” had been written under direct in¬ 
spiration. 


[ 263 ] 





BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


Mr. Peckinpaw, commissioned to do a mag¬ 
azine article dealing with the various places 
of amusement in the city of New York, had 
visited a Wild West Show in Madison Square 
Garden. The press agent of the establishment, 
scenting high-class publicity, had taken Mr. 
Peckinpaw below stairs to view the West at 
close range. 

He had seen real Indians, feathered and 
smeared with ochre, reclining on bales of hay. 
He had been introduced to Chief Singing Mule, 
and had grasped the hand that had grasped 
the hand of the late lamented Sitting Bull. He 
had the press agent ’s word for it. He had seen 
a mangy buffalo; had heard a cowpuncher from 
Springfield, Massachusetts, warble the opening 
stanza of “The Cowboy’s Lament”; had made 
obeisance before the sole surviving scout of the 
plains—and the very next week the first chap¬ 
ter of “The Lure of the West” had been writ¬ 
ten. It was a great novel. If there be doubt¬ 
ers let them ask for a copy of Mr. Peckinpaw’s 
royalty statement and thereafter hold their 
peace. 

Mr. James Montague, himself a genius whose 
fame as a producing director girdled the globe, 
took a pipe out of his mouth to greet the dis¬ 
tinguished visitor. It cannot be said that Mon¬ 
tague was in a pleasant frame of mind. For 
four days he had wrestled mightily with “The 
Lure of the West,” endeavoring to stretch it 
into five reels; and the things he had said about 
[ 264 ] 




author! author! 


Mr. Seligman and Mr. Peckinpaw came hot 
from his heart. 

After the usual polite nothings, during which 
the men took stock of each other, Mr. Peckin¬ 
paw came abruptly to business. 

“I presume you are ready to begin the—er 
—photography, Mr. Montague,” said he. “My 
time is limited. I should like to finish by Satur¬ 
day night, if possible.” 

“By Saturday night! ” ejaculated the amazed 
director. 41 Holy Moses, man! Saturday night! 
How long do you think it takes to put on a five- 
reel feature?” 

“I haven’t the slightest idea, I’m sure,” said 
Mr. Peckinpaw, stifling a yawn. “It’s merely 
a matter of turning a crank, isn’t it?” 

Montague threw himself back in his chair and 
howled until the windows rattled. 

“Merely a matter of turning a crank!” he 
said after recovering his breath. “That’s 
good! That’s immense! Say, look at this pile 
of typewritten pages, will you? That’s only a 
piece of the scenario—just a beginning. Then, 
when everything else is fixed, I’ll have to move 
the entire company out into the hills and pitch 
a camp. We may have to stay there a couple 
of weeks, getting the location stuff. After that 
we’ll come back here and make the studio 
scenes. By Saturday night! If we have a lot 
of luck we may get through with it in a month! 
It’ll take a week to get the extra people to¬ 
gether. ’ ’ 


[ 265 ] 





BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


“It seems a long time,” said Mr. Peckin¬ 
paw; “but why bother with all these things!” 
He pointed to the typewritten pages. “Why 
can’t yon start at the beginning of the book 
and work through, chapter by chapter! That 
would seem to be the simplest way.” 

Montague’s pipe sagged in his mouth and he 
stared hard at his visitor. 

“Say, are you trying to kid me!” he de¬ 
manded. 

“Most certainly not. I was merely offering 
a suggestion.” 

“Oh, that was a suggestion, was it! I 
thought it was a joke. Well, Mr. Peckinpaw, 
I haven’t the time just now to explain why all 
this preliminary work is necessary to the mak¬ 
ing of a moving picture. You can take it from 
me that laying out the ground plan of a five- 
reel feature is quite some job. It’s not a thing 
you can go at hit or miss. I’ll call on you at 
your hotel this evening and we’ll go over the 
scenario together as far as I’ve got. Mean¬ 
time, you might look round the plant and amuse 
yourself.” 

“But,” said Mr. Peckinpaw, stiffening 
slightly, “Mr. Seligman told me I was to su¬ 
perintend this work. I have a copy of my con¬ 
tract at the hotel. Mr. Seligman said-” 

“Dave is a great kidder,” said Montague. 
“What he meant was that you should assist 
with your ideas as to the way the scenes should 
be played, and all that sort of thing. I’ll be 
[ 266 ] 




author! author! 


glad to have your suggestions when we get to 
the acting; but this mechanical work must be 
done first. You can’t help me with it because 
you’re not a moving-picture director. You’re 
an author.” 

Something in the way Montague pronounced 
the last word brought a flush to Mr. Peckin- 
paw’s sallow cheeks. 

“My contract-” he began. 

“Yes, yes,” said Montague soothingly; “I’ll 
look at your contract this evening. If there is 
anything in it about your succeeding me as di¬ 
rector of this company-” 

“I didn’t say that!” snapped Mr. Peckin- 
paw, nettled. “Mr. Seligman told me-” 

“I wouldn’t believe Dave Seligman under 
oath. Greatest kidder in the world! But we 
can thresh that out this evening. Meantime, 
this junk”—Montague’s hand fell lightly on a 
copy of “The Lure of the West” as he spoke; 
it may have been an accident—“must be licked 
into shape. If it was up to me I’d only make a 
one-reel picture out of the book. Where did 
you say you were stopping?” 

Mr. Peckinpaw gave the name of his hotel 
and rose to go. 

“One thing I shall certainly insist on,” said 
he firmly, “I wish to select the actors. I am 
a believer in type, Mr. Montague.” 

“You’ve got nothing on me,” was the re¬ 
joinder. “Picking types is one of the best 
things I do. I’m noted for it.” 

[ 267 ] 









BUCK PAKYIK AND THE MOVIES 


“Now, for instance/’ said Mr. Peckinpaw, 
to whom no remarks were quite as important as 
his own, “there is the character of Shining 
Cloud, my young Indian chief. I shall require 
the perfect Indian type—high cheek hones, 
prominent nose, and—er—all that sort of thing. 
I positively will not permit a white man to play 
Shining Cloud. I must have an Indian.’’ 

16 Calm yourself! 9 ’ said Montague. “I Ve got 
the very man you want. His name is Peter 
Lone Wolf; he’s a full-blooded Oglala Sioux, 
and he’s about the typiest type of Indian that 
you most ever saw. He can act too. See you 
later. Good-day! ’ 9 

At eleven o’clock that night Mr. Montague 
stepped out of the elevator into the lobby of 
the hotel that had the honor of housing Mr. 
Marcellus M. Peckinpaw. He walked straight 
to the telegraph desk, scribbled a message on 
a night-letter blank, flung it at the operator 
and marched out, his heels clattering on the 
tiled floor. 

Ten minutes later Mr. Peckinpaw appeared 
and hurried to the telegraph desk. After con¬ 
siderable thought he also composed a mes¬ 
sage. The next morning Mr. David Seligman 
chuckled as he handed two telegrams to Marco 
Lazarus, who read as follows: 

What have I ever done to you that I should 
have a nut like Peckinpaw wished on me? If 
you want to turn this studio over to pin-headed 
[ 268 ] 





author! author! 


authors yon can count me out. Wire him to 
mind his own business. 

Montague. 

Situation here extremely difficult. M. seems 
disposed to question terms of contract—even 
suggests adding characters and incidents not in 
hook and altering plot. Will never consent to 
this! Wish to avoid open clash if possible. 
What do you advise? 

M. M. Peckinpaw. 

11 1 knew you would start something!” said 
Marco. ‘‘How are you going to straighten it 
out ?’ 9 

David Seligman grinned and winked at his 
secretary. 

“I am a diplomat / 9 said he. “I wired ’em 
both to hurry up with the picture. Only loaf¬ 
ers have time for fighting.” 


Ill 

Mr. Seligman’s telegrams produced the de¬ 
sired effect, and the open clash which Mr. Peck¬ 
inpaw dreaded was averted by a narrow mar¬ 
gin. Montague found it wise to drop the sub¬ 
ject of certain changes his experience told him 
were necessary to the success of the picture; 
and the author, believing he had carried his 
[ 269 ] 






BUCK PABVIN AND THE MOVIES 


point, became, as Montague remarked, almost 
human in spots. 

The dove of peace found the director’s small 
office more crowded than usual, because Mr. 
Peckinpaw insisted on having a table in one 
corner, where he toiled manfully at something 
Jimmy Montague was pleased to call the char¬ 
acter scenario. He gravely assured the author 
that this was of the utmost importance. 

“Of course, Peckinpaw, I get an idea from 
reading the book what these folks ought to be 
like,” explained Montague, “but I don’t want 
to trust my own judgment. You created these 
characters and it stands to reason you know 
’em better than anybody else. Write every¬ 
thing out in full—how you think these people 
ought to look and walk and talk. The more 
I have to work on, the better. ’ ’ 

“And, if you’ll believe me,” said Montague 
to Charlie Jennings, his assistant, “he fell for 
it! It keeps the little devil out of mischief; 
he lets me alone and he actually thinks he’s 
helping me! He’s writing his fool head off. 
Yesterday he wanted me to read nine pages 
about that Injun of his! ’ ’ 

“Shining Cloud?” asked Jennings, who had 
found it necessary to read “The Lure of the 
West.” 

“That’s the bird—Shining Cloud. He says 
that all the people who wrote him letters about 
the book were stuck on the Injun. Some of 
[ 270 ] 




author! author! 


’em said he was the noblest character in 
fiction. ’ ’ 

“On the level, Jim,” said Jennings, “do you 
think this fellow ever saw a regular Indian in 
all his life?” 

“Darned if I know! Judging by the book 
I’d say he hadn’t. He’ll see one this morning, 
though. Peter Lone Wolf is just finishing up 
that Western picture for the Alpha Company 
down the street. He’s going to come over in 
all his make-up. Peckinpaw is daily to see him; 
he’s afraid Peter won’t come up to the plans 
and specifications of Shining Cloud. You know, 
Charlie, this little shrimp has been patted on 
the back so much about his book that he’s come 
to think that those characters of his are real! 
He talks about Shining Cloud as though he was 
alive. ’ ’ 

It was on this very morning that Mr. Peck¬ 
inpaw ceased his labors to offer another sug¬ 
gestion. 

“Mr. Montague, I believe I have found the 
very man to play Deep Creek Jordan, the cow¬ 
boy lover,” said he. 

“So-o?” from Montague, with a rising in¬ 
flection. 

“It’s that chap who hangs round here all the 
time—typical Westerner—quaint sort of indi¬ 
vidual. He wears a green shirt and-” 

“Oh, Buck Parvin! He can’t play Deep 
Creek—that’s a part for the leading man. Buck 
can ride and do stunts, but he’s no actor. 
[ 271 ] 





BUCK PAR YIN AND THE MOVIES 


Never will be. Jack La Rue is the fellow. He’ll 
not only look Deep Creek but he’ll play h i m 
like a streak. Jack is some lover—take it from 
me!” 

“I’m sorry,” said Peckinpaw. “You see, in 
a way I had promised the part to this Buck, 
as you call him.” 

‘ ‘ Been making friends with Buck, have you 1 ’ ’ 

“Rather! We had quite a chat yesterday. 
He was telling me some of his experiences 
among the Indians—quite thrilling they were. ’ * 

“I’ll bet!” said Montague dryly. 

“He has read my book,” said Peckinpaw, 
“and he asked for an autographed copy. I 
rather suspect he intends making a present to 
a lady. Women seem to prize autographed 
copies. He says-” 

What else Mr. Parvin said is not known, for 
the door of the director’s office swung open and 
a tremendous and imposing figure entered. It 
was Peter Lone Wolf, moving-picture Indian, 
all six feet of him bravely decked out in buck¬ 
skin, beads and feathers. Mr. Peckinpaw, taken 
entirely by surprise, gazed on this colorful 
vision of savagery and made a noise like a 
frightened duck. 

“Hello, Peter!” said Montague. 

The young Indian nodded his head slightly 
in acknowledgment of the salutation and the 
feathers of his towering war bonnet swept the 
ceiling. He did not speak, but Mr. Peckinpaw 
did. 


[ 272 ] 




author! author! 


‘ 4 Wonderful! Magnificent! What a noble 
bearing! What expression! He is the living 
image of Shining Clond—by heaven, he is Shin¬ 
ing Cloud! Does—does he understand Eng¬ 
lish, Mr. Montague 

Montague did not answer; he was watching 
the Indian. Peter Lone Wolf turned his head 
slowly and looked down at the little author as 
an eagle might look at a linnet. His grave and 
beady scrutiny took in every visible detail of 
Mr. Peckinpaw’s attire, and was focused at 
last on the large round spectacles. Mr. Peck- 
inpaw experienced the sensation of shriveling 
physically; he felt himself growing smaller and 
smaller under that piercing regard. Some un¬ 
identified instinct prompted him to back into 
the corner of the room, but those unwinking 
eyes held him captive. He could not move hand 
or foot, but he did manage to hunch one shoul¬ 
der. 

Peter Lone Wolf seemed to swell and grow 
larger. His head lifted; his chin thrust itself 
forward. Then, still staring at Mr. Peckin- 
paw, he folded his arms on his chest and broke 
the silence with a terrific grunt, which seemed 
to come from the very soles of his moccasins: 

“Woof!” 

Mr. Peckinpaw’s heart fluttered against his 
ribs and, ostrich-wise, he closed his eyes; but 
as nothing happened to him he opened them 
again in time to witness a dignified and ma¬ 
jestic exit. Peter Lone Wolf, his arms still 
[ 273 ] 






BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


folded on his chest and his eyes on Mr. Peck- 
inpaw to the last, backed slowly ont of the room 
and departed, grunting at every stride. 

“Well,” said Montague, “how do you like my; 
Indian ? ’ ’ 

“Superb! Glorious!” Mr. Peckinpaw was 
recovering from a nervous chill and was chat- 
teringly voluble. “What native grace! What 
insolent pride! Why, the man might have been 
a king, the way he looked at me! And he posi¬ 
tively makes one feel his physical superiority! 
I wish I might have talked with him in his own 
tongue—gotten his viewpoint on life and what 
it means to him. There must be a mind behind 
such eyes! And what a wonderful face—so 
stern and sad, and yet so brave! All the sor¬ 
rows of a vanishing people are written on it; 
all the records of a hopeless struggle against 
a superior race. . . . But are we a superior 
race, Mr. Montague? Are we? Where have 
we a specimen to match this magnificent savage 
in physique, in simple dignity, in—in ” 

Not having his Dictionary of Synonyms 
handy, Mr. Peckinpaw stranded, gasping. Mon¬ 
tague bent his shaking shoulders over his work, 
but said nothing. 

Later Mr. Peckinpaw found pleasure in 
emptying himself of sensations and adjectives 
for the benefit of Buck Parvin, who listened so¬ 
berly enough, but with eyes dangerously bright 
and twinkling. 

“Civilization,” said Mr. Peckinpaw in con- 
[ 274 ] 




author! author! 


elusion, “has never produced such a type. It 
cannot! ’’ , 

“And a darn’ good thing!” said Buck. 
“Listen to me! I know this Injun—knew his 
ole daddy too. He was Chief Curly Wolf. You 
remember him, don’t you ?’ ’ 

“The—the name is familiar,” said Mr. Peck- 
inpaw. “I cannot quite place him. ,, 

“That’s funny—and you made a study of 
Injuns too! Ever heard of Sitting Bull?” 

Here Mr. Peckinpaw was on established 
ground. Eagerly he spoke of the intimate re¬ 
lations with Chief Singing Mule and the hand 
that had grasped the hand of Sitting Bull. 

“Well,” said Buck, “Curly Wolf was the 
guy that put the Bull in Sitting Bull. Sitting 
Bull got all the press notices, but the Injun 
that deserved the credit was Curly Wolf. He 
was the worst ole murdering cutthroat that ever 
turned a rancher inside out to see what made 
him tick! Him and Sitting Bull was as close 
as two fingers on a glove; and, if it hadn’t been 
for this Curly Wolf, Sitting Bull would have 
been as tame as a nanny goat. Curly Wolf 
used to rib him up to commit all them mean¬ 
nesses and then go along with him to see that 
he didn’t weaken. Sitting Bull wouldn’t no 
more think of going on the warpath without 
his pardner than he’d fly to the moon! . . . 
Kind of unfortunate about this Peter Lone 
Wolf; but, seeing who his daddy was, I reckon 
he comes honestly by it.” 

[ 275 ] 






BUCK PAR YIN AND THE MOVIES 


4 ‘Comes honestly by what?” asked Mr. Peck- 
inpaw, all ears. 

“Why, his habits. Every so often he goes 
sort of hug—crazy; paints himself for war; 
gives the death yell, and wants to butcher some¬ 
body like his daddy did. He was born while 
his family was up in the Little Big Horn coun¬ 
try pulling off the Custer Massacre. Maybe 
that’s got something to do with the spells he 
takes.” 

“Prenatal influence unquestionably,” mur¬ 
mured Mr. Peckinpaw. 

“Hey? Well, whatever it is, it comes on him 
just so often, same as a periodical souse. Some¬ 
times he gives warning; sometimes the only 
warning you get is the death yell. I see you 
mention the death yell in your book, so you 
know about it.” 

“Does he ever—hurt anybody?” asked Mr. 
Peckinpaw timidly. 

“Well, no—he don’t seem to aim to torture 
’em none; his notion is to kill outright,” was 
the reassuring answer. 

“And—has he?” 

“As to that,” said Buck judicially, “some 
say he has and some say he hasn’t. It depends 
on whether you count Mexicans. Some do and 
some don’t. It’s all a matter of how you’re 
raised. Personally, myself, I never seen him 
get that far. We gener’ly rope an’ hawg-tie 
him before he gets a good start. In a day or 
so it wears off and he’s all right again. I 
[ 276 ] 




author! author! 


thought I’d tell you, so you wouldn’t go pesti- 
cating round him too much. He ain’t very 
strong for Easterners; it was an Easterner that 
filled his daddy full of buckshot.” 

“Why, he’s dangerous!” said Mr. Peckin- 
paw. “He has the homicidal mania!” 

“He’s got all that,” said Buck cheerfully. 
c ‘ The best way is to keep an eye on him all the 
time. If you hear him cut loose with that war 
whoop of his don’t stop to ask any questions. 
Fade right away while your hair is on your 
head. Why, he even tried to scalp me once!” 

“He did! What did you do?” 

“Busted him on the head with the butt of 
my gun. I’d have shot him—I wanted to— 
but Montague wouldn’t let me. The Injun was 
working in the picture and it wasn’t finished 
yet. And say, speaking of Montague”—Buck 
paused and his embarrassment was quite evi¬ 
dent—“speaking of Montague, I’d like to ask 
a favor of you.” 

“Anything at all, Buck,” said Peckinpaw. 

“I wish you wouldn’t tell him that I tipped 
off this Peter proposition to you. He—he 
didn’t want you to know or else he’d have told 
you himself. If Jim should find out that I done 
it—good-by, Buck, that’s all! He’d fire me in 
a minute.” 

i ‘ I promise you I won’t mention it to a soul! ’ ’ 
said Mr. Peckinpaw earnestly. “Not a soul!” 

“Thanks,” said Buck. “I’ll kind of keep 

[ 277 ] 




BUCK PARVIIT AND THE MOVIES 


an eye on this Lone Wolf, and if I see any signs 
of it coming on I’ll tell you the first one.” 

“I wish you would, Buck,” said Mr. Peckin- 
paw. “You won’t forget?” 

“You bet I won’t! You’ve called me Buck; 
so I’m going to call you Marcellus. No; I 
reckon I’ll call you Marsh for short. Is that 
all right ? ’ ’ 

“Call me anything you like,” said Mr. Peck- 
inpaw, 4 ‘ but watch that Indian! ’ ’ 

That night the author of “The Lure of the 
West” did not rest well. He dreamed of Peter 
Lone Wolf and gory scalps, and waked to find 
himself in a cold sweat. 


IV 

It was early evening at the field headquarters 
of the Titan Company. It had once been a 
deserted ranch house—lonely buildings lying at 
the foot of the low California hills—but now 
horses whickered in the corrals, lanterns 
flashed in the barn, men and women sat under 
the great oaks or moved about the porch; and 
from the kitchen came tempting odors telling 
of ham and eggs and coffee. 

Tents were pitched in the yard and the 
meadow beyond; and in one of them a celebrated 
author sulked and waited for the dinner call, 
while in another and larger tent James Mon¬ 
tague swore softly as he checked off the list of 
[ 278 ] 





author! author! 


scenes made that day. He swore because the 
list was shorter than it should have been—and 
there was a reason. 

Charlie Jennings entered the director’s tent; 
but, seeing that his chief was in a savage hu¬ 
mor, he held his tongue. Montague finished his 
work, threw the papers into the table drawer, 
slammed it shut and looked up. 

“Where is he, Charlie!” 

“In his tent.” 

“Well, I wish he’d stay there!” said Mon¬ 
tague. “I’m getting good and sick of his non¬ 
sense. I thought, from the way he acted after 
the first run-in we had, he was going to show a 
little sense about the changes I’ve made in hi3 
story; but ever since we’ve been here it’s fuss, 
fuss, fuss! He’s as persistent as a mosquito.” 

“You can slap a mosquito,” said Jennings. 

“Yes; and I’ll slap this New Jersey pest if 
he doesn’t let me alone! ’ ’ said the exasperated 
director. “I’ve got the entire company and 
two hundred extra people out here, forty miles 
from nowhere, under heavy expense, and Peck- 
inpaw seems to think I haven’t got a thing to 
do but argue with him! The little runt! Here 
I give him the finest Western outfit that ever 
went on location—more Indians, more cow- 
punchers and more prairie schooners than 
we’ve ever used before—and he doesn’t even 
know it! And he’s holding up an outfit of 
this size to quibble about things not being in 
his damned book! 


[ 279 ] 




BUCK PAR YIN AND THE MOVIES 


“I’ve told him a thousand times—you’ve 
heard me, Charlie—that I can’t make a good 
five-reeler out of the hook as it stands. I’ve 
explained why we have to put in stunt stuff; I 
might as well talk to an Indian squaw about 
eugenics or deliver a stump speech to a hitch¬ 
ing post! He doesn’t get any part of it and he 
argues right back to the point where he started 
—it ain’t in the hook; and that settles it for 
him. Now to-day, when we were working in 
the canon, he ran right in front of the camera 
to give La Rue a bawling out—and La Rue was 
playing the scene exactly as I told him to play 
it. We had to make it over again; and when 
I asked him whether he didn’t know any better 
than to run in front of the camera he batted 
his eyes at me and said that La Rue was doing 
something that wasn’t in the book.” 

“When do you pull the burning-barn stunt?” 
asked Jennings. 

‘ 1 To-morrow; and I suppose there’ll be an 
awful row over it. Peckinpaw will have a fit. 
I told him yesterday when I caught him running 
through my script that if there wasn’t a burn¬ 
ing barn in his book there should have been. 
He nearly went through the ceiling—told me I 
didn’t know anything about art. To-day he was 
threatening to sue us for damages and hold up 
the film in the courts. I guess he overlooked 
the little joker in his contract about ‘a suitable 
film production.’ Maybe he’s only trying to 
run a sandy on me; but he’s got me nagged 
[ 280 ] 




author! author! 


till I’m almost off my nut, and he’s driving the 
actors crazy with his continual butting in.’ ’ 

“All but Peter/’ said Jennings. “He lays 
off of Shining Cloud, I notice. For some rea¬ 
son or other he won’t go within gunshot of the 
Injun; and if Peter comes into the dining-room 
while he’s there Peckinpaw gets up and goes 
out.” 

“Peter got his goat the first time he saw 
him—that’s why. I wish I had it. Confound 
Dave Seligman! He shipped me an elephant 
that went crazy in the middle of a picture and 
I stood for it; he sent me some nice tame wolves 
which bit everybody that worked with ’em, and 
I stood for that; but if he sends me any more 
temperamental authors I’m through! There’s 
a limit to what a man can stand!” 

“Ain’t it the truth?” said Buck Parvin, at 
the tent flap. He had heard part of the con¬ 
versation. “There’s a limit to how much cold 
a man can stand, Jim. I want some more blank¬ 
ets. I like to froze to death last night.” 

“Go steal ’em from the extra people,” said 
the director. “What do you think I’ve got 
here—a general store?” 

“Say,” remarked Buck, still lingering, “lit¬ 
tle Marshie is kind of gumming the cards, ain’t 
he ? I got a new girl now and she ain’t used to 
me being away like this. Somebody’ll win her 
from me while we’re fussing with this author. 
Can’t you invite him to take a walk and not 
come back?” 


[ 281 ] 




BUCK PARVI 1ST AND THE MOVIES 


‘ 1 1 wish I could, ’ ’ said Montague. 1 1 He won’t 
even take a day off to go trout fishing, he’s so 
afraid I’ll slip over something that ain’t in the 
book!” 

“Do you want him to leave this place?” 
asked Buck. 

“Do I! I’d give a thousand dollars to have 
him away from here to-morrow while we pull 
the barn fire.” 

“Make it a hundred, Jim—make it fifty and 
mean it—and you’re on!” said Buck. 

“The fifty goes,” said Montague; “but 
Peckinpaw won’t. He’ll stick!” 

“Bet you next week’s salary!” said Buck. 

“I won’t rob you,” said the director. “The 
only way he’ll leave is in a box. He’s just that 
stubborn in his narrow way!” 

“He’ll go,” said Buck. “Little Marshie 
will go away from here of his own accord. He’ll 
likely stay away all day and there won’t be any 
comeback at you. That’s good enough, ain’t 
it?” 

“Too good to be true!” said Jennings. 

“Wait and see if it is,” chuckled Buck. 

“Don’t you get him hurt!” warned Mon¬ 
tague. 

“Who, Marshie? My little pal? Why, I 
wouldn’t harm a splinter on his head! He’s 
going to put me in his next book. Then maybe 
Seligman will buy the movie rights. I’ll play 
the lead; Marshie will come out and help us 
put it on, and-” 


[ 282 ] 





author! author! 


Here a boot whizzed past Buck’s head and 
he withdrew, laughing. It was nearly dark 
by this time, but there was light enough for 
him to make out a tall figure pacing up and 
down under the oaks. 

“Pete, ole boy,” said the cowpuncher to him¬ 
self, “I wonder how game you are! I reckon 
the best way to find out is to ask you.” 


Y 

Marcellus M. Peckinpaw rose from his cot 
when the sun was streaking the east with gold. 
All about him was perfect peace and there was 
a great quietness; Mr. Peckinpaw was the one 
disturbing note in the symphony of the dawn, 
for as he rose he girded himself for war. 

He had spent the larger portion of the night 
in thinking up many cutting things he would 
say to James Montague, and he could scarcely 
wait to give them tongue. What! Butcher his 
inspired work to please low-browed ten-cent 
audiences? Sacrifice his art to pander to the 
depraved taste of the rabble? Not if he died 
for it! At any cost that barn should not burn. 
It had not burned in the book. 

Mr. Peckinpaw stepped out of his tent and 
looked on the sleeping camp. To a man with 
eyes and imagination, the sight was worth 
while. 

First, there were the tents of the regular 

[ 283 ] 




BUCK PAR YIN AND THE MOVIES 


members of the company—soldier tents, pitched 
with military precision. Indeed, they were 
later to serve as the tents of General Crook’s 
command, and even the feeblest imagination 
might easily have peopled them with cavalry¬ 
men; but this eye-witness was not thinking of 
tents—he was thinking of a barn. 

Beyond and toward the meadow, looming 
white and ghostly in the half light, were the 
prairie schooners—those huge, lumbering ve¬ 
hicles that rutted the Overland Trail in the 
fifties and sixties. They were drawn up in a 
circle, after the fashion of emigrant trains in 
the Indian country, and under the curving can¬ 
vas tops men and women were sleeping. Here 
again imagination might have helped—might 
have suggested that these people were pioneers, 
sleeping with their guns at their sides in fear 
of an Indian attack. Imagination might have 
done this; but Mr. Peckinpaw knew that the 
sleepers were extra people, earning three dol¬ 
lars a day and drawing two dollars more as a 
traveling allowance. A little knowledge can be 
a deadly thing. 

At the lower end of the meadow, close to the 
running stream, were the tepees of the Indian 
village, their smoke-blackened tops rising sharp 
against the dawn. Hobbled ponies—shaggy, 
wiry little brutes—grazed near by. Lean dogs 
prowled among the tepees, snarling over scraps 
of bacon rind. A fat squaw, a papoose strapped 
on her back, waddled into view and knelt on 
[ 284 ] 




author! author! 


the ground. It was Four Ax Handles, spouse 
of Chief Spotted Elk, building the morning fire 
exactly as her maternal ancestors had built 
fires on the plains before the white man came. 
The ascending smoke hung, a thin blue ribbon, 
in the quiet air. 

An emigrant train, an Indian village, a sol¬ 
diers’ camp, a typical ranch house and outbuild¬ 
ings; corrals full of horses and long-horned 
cattle; a wonderful background of sage-covered 
hills—and Marcellus M. Peckinpaw, celebrated 
author of Western fiction, saw only the stage 
setting of a film drama! There was no kindly 
soul to tell him that the scenery and the prop¬ 
erties were real, and that these people, though 
actors, were actually living the lives of the 
characters they assumed before the camera. 
There was no one to tell him this; had there 
been, it might have passed unheeded, for Mr. 
Peckinpaw was thinking of a barn and seeing 
himself in the attitude of a Casabianca. 

Perhaps this was a pity, for, in that brief 
space before the camp woke and took on its 
all too evident flavor of theatricism, the at¬ 
mosphere and true romance of a vanished fron¬ 
tier were there before him. The West that he 
had never seen—the West that Wister knew 
and Remington left to us on canvas—lived 
again in those few moments, to vanish, like a 
ghost, with the rising of the sun. Mr. Peckin¬ 
paw saw but did not understand. He compared 
the scene unfavorably with the basement of 
[ 285 ] 






BUCK PABVIK AND THE MOVIES 


Madison Square Garden and rehearsed the 
speeches with which he would rebuke a pre¬ 
sumptuous director. 

From the barn and corrals came a faint and 
drowsy Yip-yip-yip-e-e-e! The first moving- 
picture cowpuncher was astir and the illusion 
was fading fast—would soon be gone. The real 
cowpuncher takes no special pride and sees no 
virtue in sleeping on haled hay—he will have 
a comfortable bed or know why; but his film 
brother, who never knew the range, covers him¬ 
self with a horse blanket, uses his saddle for a 
pillow, and boasts inordinately of the toughness 
of his fiber. 

From the back yard of the ranch house came 
a steady whacking sound. The cook’s assistant 
was chopping wood for the breakfast fire. An 
extra man rolled out of a prairie schooner and 
saluted the day with a succession of resounding 
yells. Chief Spotted Elk came out of his tepee, 
glanced shrewdly at the sky and, squatting in 
the doorway, proceeded to paint his face, like 
the dependable moving-picture actor he was. 
Almost immediately the corrals swarmed with 
cowpunchers grooming and saddling their 
horses. Jack La Rue, the leading man, thrust 
his head into the open and bawled to Jennings, 
who was seated on a camp-stool in front of his 
tent, making up his face for the part of the cat¬ 
tle baron. 

44 Oh, Charlie! What clothes do I put on 
first?” 


[ 286 ] 





author! author! 


41 Your puncher outfit,’’ answered Jennings; 
“and you’d better leave off your chaps. It’ll 
be easier for you to jump out of the barn loft 
without ’em.” 

“Jump out of the barn loft!” Mr. Peckin- 
paw drew himself up to five feet three inches of 
bristling indignation. There was nothing in the 
book about Deep Creek Jordan’s jumping out 
of a barn loft! What new outrage was this? 

Mr. Peckinpaw was the first man in the din¬ 
ing-room at the ranch house. He had formed 
the habit of breakfasting early because he had 
noticed that Peter Lone Wolf breakfasted late. 
Peter was a privileged Indian. He shared a 
tent with Buck Parvin and took his meals in 
the house with the leading people. He never 
went near the tepee village unless in the per¬ 
formance of a scene, and he utterly ignored the 
men and women of his race. 

Mr. Peckinpaw had studiously avoided the 
Indian since Buck’s warning, but the Indian 
had not avoided him. A dozen times a day 
the author looked up to find that steady, beady 
stare on him, boring through him—a calm and 
incurious but, nevertheless, disconcerting re¬ 
gard. It seemed to Mr. Peckinpaw that the 
Indian took a certain solemn pleasure in mak¬ 
ing him uncomfortable; and in the presence 
of Peter Lone Wolf the author’s clothes felt 
too large for him and uncertain tremors trav¬ 
eled up and down his spine. This had hap¬ 
pened once at breakfast and Mr. Peckinpaw 
[ 287 ] 







BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


had resolved that it should never happen again. 
Under certain circumstances a knife, or even a 
fork, might become a deadly weapon. An alarm 
clock, a five-dollar bill to the cook, and the risk 
of eating in the same room with a homicidal 
maniac had been averted. 

Mr. Peckinpaw was buttering his wheat cakes 
when Buck Parvin entered and, bending over 
him, whispered hoarsely: 

“Look out, Marsh!” 

“Look out for what?” asked Mr. Peckinpaw, 
with a sinking sensation where his appetite 
should have been. 

“For the Injun! He was yipping a little bit 
in his sleep last night. He said something 
about Owlface—that’s what he calls you. It’s 
a bad sign and I thought you ought to know.” 

Mr. Peckinpaw dropped knife, fork and ap¬ 
petite with a crash. 

“Does—does he begin that way?” He found 
some difficulty in pronouncing his words, for 
his mouth had gone suddenly dry. 

“Sometimes he does,” said Buck. 

“Don’t leave him for a minute!” pleaded 
Mr. Peckinpaw. “I—I rely on you, Buck.” 

“I sure’ll watch him like a hawk,” was the 
reply. 

Mr. Peckinpaw looked at his wheat cakes, 
picked up his knife, dropped it again, and, ris¬ 
ing, hurried from the room. Buck finished the 
wheat cakes, regarding them as the spoils of 
war. Then he drank three cups of coffee, rolled 
[ 288 ] 




author! author! 


a cigarette and strollud out in search of Mr. 
Peckinpaw. The author was nowhere to be 
found. 

“So soon?” thought Buck. “Why, this is 
too easy!” 

James Montague, tousle-headed and un¬ 
shaved, appeared in the open and glanced at 
the sky. 

“Not a cloud!” said he. “We ought to get 
a lot of work done if that little pest will only 
let me alone.” 

6 ‘ Morning, Jim! ’ ’ said Buck. ‘ ‘ Got that fifty 
handy?” 

“What fifty?” asked Montague. “Oh, I re¬ 
member. No such luck. Peckinpaw will never 
miss this chance to make trouble.” 

“All the same, the fifty goes?” questioned 
the cowpuncher. 

“Sure—but there’s no chance.” 

An hour later Ben Leslie and his assistants 
swarmed through the barn, planting smoke pots 
and red fire. In a dark corner they came on 
the distinguished author of “The Lure of the 
West.” He had been hiding behind a grain 
bin. 

“What are these things for?” he asked. 

“Fire picture,” said Ben. “Better get out¬ 
side; you can’t see it from here. It’ll be worth 
while too. . . . All set, boys? Smoke her up 
good when you get the word!” 

Fear is a compelling motive; but so is a 
sacred duty to one’s art. The titanic struggle 
[ 289 ] 








BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


between them was a short one; it left Mr. Peck- 
inpaw weak and shaking bnt resolved. With all 
the firmness he conld muster, which was not 
enough to keep his knees from trembling under 
him, Marcellus M. Peckinpaw marched out of 
the barn and confronted the entire company 
just as Montague was giving his final instruc¬ 
tions to the actors. 

“Jack, you make the jump from the loft win¬ 
dow,” said he. “It’s an easy one and I’ve 
had the ground spaded up and straw spread 
on it. Come straight down, with your hands 
over your head. Then run-” 

Mr. Peckinpaw cleared his throat and moist¬ 
ened his lips with his tongue. 

“Mr. Montague/’ said he, “I cannot permit 
this. I will not permit this! ? ? He addressed 
the director, but his wandering eye took note 
of Peter Lone Wolf slipping into the dressing 
tent. Buck Parvin was at his heels; and at 
sight of the cowpuncher, faithful to his trust, 
Mr. Peckinpaw took heart and courage. “I—• 
I forbid you to do this!” he said. 

“Oh, see here now,” cajoled Montague; “this 
is childish, Peckinpaw! Ridiculous! I am mak¬ 
ing this picture. ’ ’ 

“You are making a picture, but you are not 
making it from my book. I object—I must ob¬ 
ject—to these unwarrantable liberties! The 
picture is to be advertised in my name. I am 
responsible to the public for this produc¬ 
tion. My name guarantees it. My contract 
[ 290 ] 




author! author! 


reads-” He quoted copious extracts from 

that legal document. 

The actors looked at each other and grinned; 
it was Montague’s trouble—not theirs. The di¬ 
rector lost his temper and raged—the author 
lost his temper and raved; and they raged and 
raved together up and down in front of the 
camera while the assembled multitude looked 
on. 

“Ah-h, quit chewin’ the rag and let’s get 
busy!” pleaded Charlie Dupree, the camera 
man. Then, under his breath: “Go on, boss! 
Paste him one for me!” 

“It’s an outrage!” spluttered the author. 
“It’s a breach of contract! I appeal to you all 
—to your sense of what is fair and right! You 
know this man is taking liberties with the text! 
You have read the book-” 

“Yes,” interrupted Montague, with a sneer; 
“they’ve read the book—I made ’em do it. 
They think as much of your book as I do. They 
know that unless we stiffen this picture with 
stunt stuff it won’t stand up—it won’t be any 
better than your damned book—and that means 
it’ll be rotten! Now will you get out of the 
way and let me go on with this scene?” 

“I will not!” screamed Mr. Peckinpaw, fairly 
dancing with rage. “I know my rights and I 
will stand here and fight to the last! I will 
not move from this spot! I dare you to touch 
me! I’ll sue-” 

Clear and high above Mr. Peckinpaw’s agi- 
[ 291 ] 









BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


tated tenor there arose a startling and ear¬ 
piercing howl, soaring in a succession of wild 
nlulations and ending in a long-drawn whoop. 
The author paused, his bold defiance dying to 
a rattle in his throat; his chin sagged, and he 
turned a chalky face toward the dressing tent 
in time to see Buck Parvin burst into the open, 
running, terror in his bulging eyes. 

The flaps of the tent were dashed aside and 
‘Peter Lone Wolf leaped into view, yelling as he 
came. Naked, save for a breech-clout, mocca¬ 
sins and streaming war bonnet, streaked and 
splashed with all the colors of the rainbow, a 
butcher’s knife in one hand and a tomahawk in 
the other, he was indeed an eye-filling, nerve- 
paralyzing spectacle; and—horror of horrors! 
—he was heading straight for Mr. Peckinpaw! 

Moving-picture people are trained to grasp 
the action of a scene without loss of time, and 
this probably explains why Mr. Peckinpaw had 
a few yards the worst of the general start. In 
the midst of a frenzied stampede of cowpunch- 
ers, actors, extra people and one director, a 
single figure remained rooted to the spot— 
Charlie Dupree, true to tradition, did not de¬ 
sert his beloved camera; but he clung to it for 
support. 

4 4 Eun, Marsh! ’ ’ yelled Buck. 4 4 F or the love 
of Mike, hump yourself! He’s got ’em again— 
and he’s after you!” 

And Marsh ran. Two men were in a position 
to witness his amazing burst of speed. Charlie 
[ 292 ] 




author! author! 


Dupree afterward declared that the celebrated 
author ran the first mile in nothing flat. Buck 
Parvin said he lowered all world’s records up 
to ten miles. The truth may lie somewhere be¬ 
tween the two statements. It is certain the 
author was almost immediately swallowed up 
by the nearest canon, distant some two hundred 
yards. Later he was seen passing over a low 
ridge half a mile away, his short legs flying like 
drumsticks. They had need to fly, for ten feet 
behind him loped Peter Lone Wolf; and the 
wind brought back the echoes of his terrible 
death yell. 

“What is it all about?” asked James Mon¬ 
tague, crawling out from under a prairie 
schooner. i i Is Peter pickled, or what? ’ ’ Then 
he saw Buck Parvin smiling at him—a meaning 
and virtuous smile. 

“You owe me fifty, Jim,” said Buck. 

“You darned fool!” yelled Montague. “Why 
didn’t you tell me what was coming off? Don’t 
you know I’ve got a weak heart?” 


WE 


Black dark hung over the encampment, but 
in the director’s tent there was a light. This 
much was observed by one who peered through 
the brush at the edge of the clearing. With 
halting steps and many pauses for listening, he 
[ 293 ] 






BUCK PARVIH AND THE MOVIES 


drew near; voices came to him and the click 
and rattle of poker chips. 

The reader is a good guesser; he knows we 
have here a celebrated author returning from 
a journey into the hills. Mr. Peckinpaw’s 
clothes were torn and dirty; he had lost his hat; 
his hair was matted with burs; his face was 
scratched, and he walked with two separate 
and distinct limps—one for each leg. He was 
about to lift the tent flap when he heard a voice 
that gave him pause. Buck Parvin, his friend 
and protector, was speaking: 

“As a writer he may be a joke—I’m no 
judge; but as a runner—say, what would he 
do to one of them Marathons? Put an Injun 
behind him and he’d run first, second and third 
-—that’s all! I’ll bet he ran so far that it’ll 
take him a month to walk back. You reckon 
he’ll want to sue somebody for this?” 

“No chance!’’ This was Montague speaking. 
“Don’t you think he knows how much fun the 
newspapers can have with this story? An au¬ 
thor chased by one of his own creations! No; 
he’ll never tell that on a witness stand. They’d 
kid him to death. He won’t sue! ’ ’ 

“The modern Frankenstein, eh?” A third 
voice took up the strain—a deep, vibrant voice, 
which Mr. Peckinpaw told himself he had never 
heard before. “Yes, that would make fairly 
good reading. Somehow it isn’t the fellow’s 
manner that I object to, offensive as it is. He 
doesn’t know any better! Some communities 
[ 294 ] 




author! author! 


turn out creatures of his sort by the gross—- 
and it takes a gross of ’em to make a man. 
Peckinpaw is as God made him, and I excuse 
a great deal on that account; but I do hold him 
criminally liable for that piffling book. I read 
it when it first came out. That it sold at all is 
proof of the decline of our literary standards; 
that it became a best seller is a fearful indict¬ 
ment against public taste. I can excuse lack of 
plot; I can wink at ignorance of subject matter; 
I can even read a Western novel with Fenimore 
Cooper Indians in it—but sheer, bad workman¬ 
ship is where I draw the line! Peckinpaw is a 
pitiful little literary hack. What he mistakes 
for attainments are the cheap tricks of the 
penny-a-liner, and his sentence construction is 
vile. He has been taught not to split his in¬ 
finitives, but as for the rest—phew! . . . Gen¬ 
tlemen, I will now crack this pot for a large 
shining dollar. Come in, Buck! Faint heart 
never filled a spade flush, which is the best thing 
I learned at Harvard.’’ 

Mr. Peckinpaw’s face flushed painfully in 
the darkness and his hand fell away from the 
tent flap; but it returned again. At any cost 
he must know who dared call Marcellus M. 
Peckinpaw a pitiful little literary hack. Cau¬ 
tiously he moved the canvas a fraction of an 
inch and applied his eye to the aperture. Three 
men were sitting at the table. Two of them 
he had recognized by their voices. The third 
man was speaking again. 

[ 295 ] 









BUCK PAKVIH AND THE MOVIES 


“Ah, Buck! That’s a bad habit you have— 
trying to beat threes with a four flush. It has 
been done, but in the long run the practice is 
ruinous.” 

The man who was speaking—the owner of 
the deep, vibrant voice and Harvard prejudice 
against poor literary workmanship—was none 
other than Peter Lone Wolf, moving-picture In¬ 
dian. 

Mr. Peckinpaw gulped and stole quietly away 
in the darkness. 

The next morning the distinguished author 
returned to civilization in one of the company’s 
automobiles. He explained to James Montague 
that he had washed his hands of the movies, 
once and for all time. 

Peter Lone Wolf, feathered and painted with¬ 
in an inch of his life, waiting to play a scene with 
Miss Manners, the leading woman, watched Mr. 
Peckinpaw’s departure with the changeless ex¬ 
pression of his race. 

“I think he is on to us, Buck,” said Peter. 
“I tried the hypnotic eye on him again this 
morning, but there was nothing doing. I even 
woofed a few woofs and stamped my foot, but 
he only glared at me. He looked as though he 
wanted to stick out his tongue. I have lost my 
power over him. I wonder why!” 

“Well,” said Buck, “even Bip Van Winkle 
had to wake up some time. ’ ’ 

“I have had a lot of fun with him,” said the 
[ 296 ] 




author! author! 


Indian, rising and stretching himself, “and I 
shall miss him. It was worth the strain of 
playing the wild and nntntored savage—on and 
off, as it were. . . . By the way, Buck, if we 
ever get that fifty out of Montague, how do we 
split it?” 

“Fifty-fifty,” was the prompt answer. 

“And I ran five miles and howled myself 
hoarse!” murmured Peter Lone Wolf. “It 
just shows that the Indian always gets the 
worst of it from the white man. ... Yes, Mr. 
Montague! Coming ! 7 7 


[ 297 ] 









SNOW STUFF 


T HE night train, westbound to the Coast, 
deposited a single passenger upon the 
Truckee Station platform and slipped 
clicking down the railroad yards, its 
brilliant tail-lights gleaming above the snow. 
Winter air in the Sierra Nevadas is brisk and 
biting, and the lone gentleman thrust his fat 
hands into his overcoat pockets and looked 
about him with a mixture of curiosity and con¬ 
descension. Plainly here was one unused to the 
provinces, and, by the curl of his lip, not par¬ 
ticularly impressed with his surroundings. 

On one side of the track was the short main 
street of Truckee, with its thirty-seven saloons. 
On the other side was the swiftly flowing river, 
mirroring the lights of the Ice Palace beyond. 
The stranger shivered and drew his overcoat 
closely about him. In cold weather the over¬ 
coat proclaims the man, and this garment spoke 
loudly of Broadway check rooms and brighter 
lights than Truckee ? s. Its shell was of the 
finest melton, lined with undyed sealskin, while 
the rolling collar and the wide cuffs were of 
astrakhan. Of the man inside the coat it is 
[ 298 ] 







SNOW STUFF 


sufficient to say that lie wore too many dia¬ 
monds, had a bulge where his jawline should 
have been and dimples in place of knuckles. 
Everything about him suggested fatness and 
softness, and he wheezed when he lifted up his 
voice querulously: 

“Here, you! Can I get a carriage in this 
God-forsaken hole?” 

The station loafer whom he addressed 
chuckled from his perch upon a baggage truck: 

“A carriage, mister? What for?” 

“To take me to the hotel, of course. What 
did you think I wanted it for?” 

The loafer jerked his thumb over his shoul¬ 
der. 

“Hotel’s right across the street,” said he. 
“Folks mostly walk it.” 

The man in the fur coat grunted, picked up 
his suitcase and then put it down again. 

“Carry this for me!” he commanded. 

1 ‘ Sure! ’ ’ said the loafer, scenting a quarter. 
“Why, of course!” 

As they were crossing the slushy street, the 
newcomer planting his patent leathers gingerly, 
a startling succession of noises rose on the quiet 
air. First came a long-drawn howl, and before 
the sound had died away among the pines 
and tamaracks a dozen tongues answered it. 
The stranger paused, irresolute. The clamor 
swelled and grew in volume until the whole 
night seemed to quiver with it. The man in the 
sealskin coat recognized the sound. He had 
![ 299 ] 












BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 




once staged a Broadway musical comedy called 
‘ 1 The Queen of Saskatchewan, ’ ’ and the phono- 
graphed howlings of a wolf pack had been the 
hit of the piece. 

“Wolves!” said he, and looked back at the 
depot as if meditating flight. 

“Naw!” said the loafer, grinning. “Not 
wolves, but the next thing to it. There’s a 
movie outfit up here makin’ Alaska stuff, and 
every stable in town is full of them darned 
malemutes and huskies. They fight all day and 
howl all night, but outside o’ that I guess 
they’re all right.” 

“Oh, the dog teams, eh?” said the stranger, 
evidently relieved. 4 ‘ They belong to the Titan 
Company, don’t they?” 

“Yeh, that’s the name of the outfit. There’s 
been five or six companies here this winter 
makin’ snow pictures, but this is the biggest of 
the bunch. They got skin canoes, seven or 
eight sledges, fifty dogs, fur clothes till you 
can’t rest, an’ even a lot of Japs that they dress 
up like Eskimoses.” 

“And what do you think?” said the loafer 
five minutes afterward to the keeper of the bar 
in one of the thirty-seven saloons. “Here I’m 
givin’ all this information to the general man¬ 
ager of the company—the Main Finger, just 
out from New York. Golly! He sure did jump 
when them malemutes started singin’!” 

While the loafer was spending his newly ac¬ 
quired quarter in a manner that seemed good 
[ 300 ] 




SNOW STUFF 


to him, Mr. I. Gordan—for so he wrote himself 
upon the hotel register—was asking the clerk 
the usual question of his kind. 

“What’s doing in town to-night?” 

“Well,” said the clerk, “there’s the saloons 
and the Ice Palace. That’s about all.” 

“The Ice Palace?” 

“That’s the building across the river from 
the depot—they flood the floor with water and 
let it freeze. Best ice skating in the West. 
You’d better see that, it’s worth while.” 

“New York is full of ice rinks,” said Mr. 
Gordan. 

But a night-owl cannot go to bed as long as 
the lights are burning, and as the thirty-seven 
saloons were not inviting, to the Ice Palace 
Mr. Gordan wended his way. There was a vis¬ 
itors ’ gallery, but Mr. Gordan believed in being 
seen as well as in seeing, so he sat on one of 
the benches reserved for the skaters and his 
overcoat created a mild sensation among the 
mackinaws and sweaters. He was too fat to 
skate, and soon he regretted that such was the 
case. The regret came after the discovery of 
a trim young person in a woolly white sweater 
and a short skirt, who skated alone, performing 
miracles of grace upon the glassy floor. Mr. 
Gordan was an expert on feminine charms— 
had he not selected the broilers for many a mu¬ 
sical comedy show?—and his piggy eyes bright¬ 
ened as they followed the lithe, darting figure. 

“One swell little gal!” said Mr. Gordan to 

[ 301 ] 






BUCK PARVIU AUD THE MOVIES 


himself. Then he addressed the man who sat on 
the bench beside him. This was a weather¬ 
beaten individual in a mackinaw coat, heavy 
boots and a knitted cap. In this northern dis¬ 
guise his best friends would never have recog¬ 
nized Mr. R. Buchanan Parvin, moving-picture 
cowpuncher. In fact, Buck often had difficulty 
in recognizing himself. 

‘ 4 Who’s the chicken skating alone!” Mr. 
Gordan spoke with Forty-second Street famili¬ 
arity. “The one in the plaid skirt.” 

Buck looked sharply at Gordan before he re¬ 
plied. 

“What if I said it was my wife?” 

Mr. Gordan became almost confused, but only 
because Buck continued to regard him with an 
unwavering eye. 

“I didn’t know—I didn’t mean-” he be¬ 

gan, stammering. 

“Well, as it happens she ain’t my wife,” said 
Buck,‘ ‘ and she ain’t no chicken neither. Here ’& 
a tip that won’t do you a bit of harm. This 
ain’t a chicken country. It’s only once in a 
great while that we see a pig out here too.” 
Having made his meaning very plain Buck 
turned his back upon the stranger. 

“Huh! The village cut-up!” said Mr. Gor¬ 
dan. 

“No-o,” said Buck, who was rolling a brown- 
paper cigarette; ‘‘but if you want to do well in 
this town you better tread light and sing low. ’ ’ 
After his cigarette was lighted he turned and 
[ 302 ] 




SNOW STUFF 


puffed the smoke into Mr. Gordan’s eyes. Mr. 
Gordan moved to the other side of the rink. 
Being a person of one idea at a time and per¬ 
sistence along certain lines, he was rewarded 
by the information he sought. 

“She’s an actress—-the leading lady with the 
movie company. Kind of cute, ain’t she?” 

Mr. Gordan smiled a fat and oily smile. 

“I knew I’d seen her before!” said he to 
himself. ‘‘That’s Manners, of course!” 

An actress! Mr. Gordan sat down to wait, 
for he knew all about actresses. Of a type un¬ 
fortunately not rare in certain brightly lighted 
precincts directly south of Yonkers, he had been 
associated with musical-comedy productions for 
many years, hence that knowledge. 

“The legitimate, the merry-merry and the 
movies, they’re all alike,” mused Mr. Gordan, 
watching Myrtle Manners cutting figure eights 
in the middle of the floor. 11 They ’re all alike! ’ ’ 

Mr. Gordan was scarcely qualified to speak 
for the movies, as his experience of film people 
was limited. An uncle with a keen nose for the 
dollar had left him a block of stock in the Titan 
Company, and it was this block of stock, to¬ 
gether with a persuasive line of conversation, 
that had won for Gordan the position of gen¬ 
eral Western manager, with powers extraordi¬ 
nary. 

“Montague and the rest of the directors are 
spending entirely too much money,” said Gor¬ 
dan. “I’ll go out and look round a while on the 
[ 303 ] 








BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


quiet and see where expenses can be cut down. ’ 9 

“Well, be careful ,’ 9 warned Seligman, the 
vice-president and actual head of the company. 
“Don’t make any changes without consulting 
me. A director is a kind of a czar, Izzy. Mon¬ 
tague is worse than a czar and he spends money 
like a Pittsburgh millionaire, but he makes 
great pictures. Whatever you do, don’t antago¬ 
nize Montague. The fellow has got now of¬ 
fers from three or four other concerns, and 
we can’t afford to lose him.” 

Mr. Gordan may have seemed half asleep as 
he sat upon his bench, but he knew when Myrtle 
Manners left the floor. He was waddling at 
her heels when she started for the hotel. 

“Oh, Miss Manners! One minute!” he 
called. 

The young woman paused, estimated Mr. 
Gordan with a swift glance and resumed her 
way. 

“Wait! It’s all right!” he wheezed reas¬ 
suringly. “It ain’t what you think at all. 
Wait!” 

Miss Manners waited and Gordan ap¬ 
proached. 

“My name is Gordan,” said he. “I’m the 
new Western manager. I guess you’ve heard 
of me, all right. Just got in on the train, and 
I saw you skating and recognized you from the 
pictures.” 

The young woman bowed, but she did not see 
the fat hand that was offered her. 

[ 304 ] 





SNOW STUFF 


4 ‘Yon acted as if yon thought I was trying 
to kidnap you,” chuckled Gordan. “We might 
as well get acquainted now as later, hey? How’s 
Montague getting along with the snow stuff ? ’’ 

“He is at the hotel working on a scenario,” 
said Miss Manners. “He can tell you better 
than I can.” 

“Oh, never mind him now,” said Mr. Gor¬ 
dan. “Plenty of time for business to-morrow. 
Kind of quiet up here, ain’t it? Nothing to do 
in the evenings. I suppose there ain’t a res¬ 
taurant in this town where we could have a lit¬ 
tle supper, hey?” 

“If you are hungry,” said the young woman, 
“you can get sandwiches in the railroad eating 
house.” 

“What do you do for a good time?” de¬ 
manded Gordan. 

“We work mostly,” said Miss Manners. 
‘ ‘ That reminds me that we make an early start 
in the morning. You’ll excuse me, I’m sure. 
Good-night.” 

This time there was no catching her. Mr. 
Gordan chuckled as he watched the indignant 
swirl of the plaid skirt. 

‘ ‘ Got a temper, have you, girlie ? ’ ’ said he to 
himself. “Well, I’ve seen ’em with tempers 
before.” 

As he prepared for bed Mr. Gordan told him¬ 
self that Truckee would not be so bad after all. 

“They’re all alike—actresses,” said he, as he 
turned off the light. “They’re always upstage 
[ 305 ] 




BUCK PARVIIT AND THE MOVIES 


until they know you. Now this Manners, I’ll 
bet she’s a good feller when she gets ac¬ 
quainted. ’ ’ 


n 

If Mr. Gordan had been an early riser he 
would have witnessed an interesting sight in 
the departure of a moving-picture company 
equipped for snow stuff. The historic Donner 
Lake was to be the scene of the day’s work, 
but at the hour of starting the general Western 
manager was peacefully slumbering, and noth¬ 
ing short of a cannon would have roused him. 

The gray dawn brought the sound of wheels 
and a six-horse coach, which drew up in front 
of the hotel. The conveyance was for the lead¬ 
ing people and the extra women. A dozen 
Japanese coolies, carefully selected for their 
heavy features and high cheekbones, plodded 
by muffled in furs. These were the moving-pic¬ 
ture Eskimos. Each Jap’s face was painted a 
ghastly yellow in order that the natural brown 
of the skin might not offer too great a contrast 
when photographed against a snowy back¬ 
ground. 

Next came the dog teams, three in number. 
Buck Parvin, driving a gee-pole team, was in 
the lead, maneuvering seven tail-curled and 
frisky malemutes for the benefit of the few 
spectators upon the sidewalk. Buck was made 
[ 306 ] 




SNOW STUFF 


up as an Alaskan musher. He wore a drill 
parka, a long loose garment that covered him 
from neck to knee, serving as a protection 
against wind and cold. The hood and cuffs of 
his parka were of fur and his feet were incased 
in mukluks, rude sealskin boots bound about 
with thongs. The snowshoes he would wear 
later were strapped upon the sledge. With one 
eye on his audience and one eye upon the male- 
mutes, Buck straddled the tug behind the wheel 
dog, and the pop of his thirty-foot whip min¬ 
gled with his sharp commands* 

‘ 4 Mush—mush on!” he yelled, and the dogs 
leaped into their collars, moving ahead in a 
straight line. 

‘‘ Mush—haw!” The lead dog swung obedi¬ 
ently to the left. 

“Mush—gee!” The malemutes turned to 
the right. 

“Whoa!” Every dog stopped in his tracks, 
seemingly waiting for something. There are 
only five commands that move an Alaskan dog 
team, and the most important one is the one 
which Buck forgot to give. Almost immedi¬ 
ately the third dog in the line nipped his neigh¬ 
bor smartly on the haunches and in less than 
two seconds the seven malemutes were piled in 
a furry heap, rolling, yelling, snapping, snarl¬ 
ing and biting. 

4 ‘ Darn it! ” said Buck. ‘ 4 1 forgot it again! * 7 

He leaped into the midst of the melee, kicking 
and striking right and left with the butt of his 
[ 307 ] 




BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


whip. The sidewalk loafers came reluctantly to 
his aid, for an angry malemute bites promiscu¬ 
ously, and order was at last restored and the 
traces untangled. 

* ‘ Down !’ 9 yelled Buck. * ‘ Down, you devils!’ 9 
The dogs dropped in the snow, whining, fur 
bristling, quivering with eagerness to renew the 
combat, but obedient to the fifth and most im¬ 
portant command. 

“They’re just like football players,” ex¬ 
plained Buck. “If you don’t holler ‘Down’ as 
soon as they stop moving they begin scrapping 
among themselves. They’re the fightin’est 
dawgs in the world. I reckon I’ve refereed fifty 
battles this week and been bit a million times. 
You, Skookum, down!” 

“Yes, and some day they’ll kill each other 
and I’ll have to dock you a hundred apiece for 
’em! ’ ’ 

Thus spoke fur-clad authority in the person 
of James Montague, director. The loafers 
looked upon him with awe, and not without rea¬ 
son, for he cut a dashing figure. His parka 
was of reindeer skin, double thickness, the in¬ 
ner slip being of reindeer fawn, soft as velvet. 
The immense hood of the garment was lined 
with fox tails, and the skirt was bordered eight 
inches deep with patches of many-colored furs 
sewed in intricate patterns. This border rep¬ 
resented months and perhaps years of patient 
labor by the light of a blubber lamp. It was 
the parka of a great chief and Montague wore 
[ 308 ] 




SNOW STUFF 


it like one, for was he not a czar? Then, too, 
he had cast himself for the heavy in the picture 
he was making, and, directorlike, he was dress¬ 
ing that villain in the best the company ward¬ 
robe afforded. 

“Mush on, Buck!” said he. “You should 
have been started an hour ago. ’ ’ 

Miss Manners, also in parka and furs, 
touched the director’s arm. 

“Jim,” she said; “Gordan is in town.” 

“I know it,” said Montague. “He left his 
card for me. Who told you about it?” 

“He introduced himself last night.” Mon¬ 
tague read the meaning behind the words and 
cocked one eye at his leading woman. 

“He did, did he? What’s he like?” 

“Just about what you said he’d be. I sup¬ 
pose he’ll want to see you this morning.” 

“If he wants to see me,” said the czar, “he 
can come to Donner Lake. I’ll leave word for 
him.” He plunged into the hotel and reap¬ 
peared almost immediately, fuming. “I can’t 
waste a whole morning’s good light jawing with 
a man who doesn’t know enough to stay in New 
York, where he belongs. Come on, folks! All 
aboard!” 

By eleven o’clock Montague had completed 
five scenes and was rehearsing a sixth—a tick¬ 
lish bit of action involving the upsetting of a 
loaded sledge upon a steep side hill. Four times 
he had attempted to get the desired effect, but 
without success, and he was perspiring under 
[ 309 ] 







BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


the fox tails and using language. Perhaps this 
was why he did not see a fat gentleman roll 
out of a sleigh and flounder through the snow 
toward him. 

“Try that again, Buck!” shouted Montague. 
“I want that sledge to turn clear over and start 
down the hill. And you go headfirst into the 
snow—and stay there!” 

Buck started his dogs, and Montague, con¬ 
scious of a puffing and wheezing at his elbow, 
turned to confront Mr. Gordan. 

“Well?” said the director, who had forgotten 
all about the general Western manager. “What 
do you want?” 

Mr. Gordan introduced himself, and it 
seemed that he wanted several things, including 
an explanation of Mr. Montague’s conduct. 

“You got my card; why didn’t you wait at 
the hotel?” 

“Because I can’t waste the entire morning,” 
said the director shortly. “No, no, Buck, not 
a bit like it! Rotten! Have I got to come up 
there and show you how to make a fall?” 

‘ ‘ But I left my card, ’ ’ sputtered Mr. Gordan. 

“ I ’ll talk to you presently, ’ ’ said Montague; 
“just now I’m busy. Stand back, please.” 

In this Montague was within his rights. Dur¬ 
ing the actual making of a picture the director 
is absolute and brooks no interference. A stage 
manager listens to the voice of the angel who 
pays for the production; a moving-picture di¬ 
rector spends thousands to obtain novel effects, 
,[ 310 ] 




SNOW STUFF 


and holds himself accountable only to the high 
court of results achieved. It is of record that 
a director once pulled the nose of a great mag¬ 
nate, pulled it in the presence of the entire com¬ 
pany and five hundred extra people, and the 
magnate apologized. He had tried to tell the 
director his business. 

i i Stand back, please! ’’ said Montague. ‘ ‘ Now 
then, Buck-” 

Mr. Gordan stood back. After a time he 
spied Miss Manners sitting on a blanket under 
a tamarack, and Montague was allowed to pro¬ 
ceed in peace. 

Noon came and the lunch was unpacked. Mr. 
Gordan drank scalding coffee out of a tin cup 
and gave further proof of the authority vested 
in him. 

“I see that you had a six-horse team to come 
out here with,” said he. “Is that necessary?” 

“What do you want these people to do— 
walk ? 9 9 demanded Montague. ‘ 1 They’d get here 
so tired that they wouldn’t be able to work. In 
the time it would take ’em to walk it I can make 
three scenes worth a thousand apiece to the 
company. The coach costs me twenty dollars a 
day. Anything else you’d like to know?” 

In the afternoon Mr. Gordan established un¬ 
friendly relations with another important mem¬ 
ber of the company. Snow stuff tests the pa¬ 
tience as well as the resource of a camera man, 
and Charlie Dupree had been sorely tried that 
day. He had just succeeded in planting his 
[ 311 ] 







BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


wooden triangle and setting the tripod upon 
it, preparatory to “shooting across” an ex¬ 
panse of virgin snow. Miss Manners, fleeing 
from the villain, was to cross that unbroken 
surface on snowshoes. 

When everything was in readiness for the 
scene Mr. Gordan, thinking of something he be¬ 
lieved Miss Manners would be pleased to hear, 
trudged heavily across the snow in the line of 
focus, and Dupree squealed with rage. 

“Ah, now you’ve tracked it all up!” he cried. 
“Don’t you see I got to make another set-up? 
If you want to walk round get behind the 
camera! ’’ 

“Don’t be fresh, young man!” said Mr. Gor¬ 
dan sternly. 

It was Miss Manners who said the last word 
on the subject of the general Western manager. 
Returning from her nightly spin at the Ice 
Palace she saw a light in the hotel parlor that 
Montague used as an office, and tapped on the 
door. Montague came out into the hall, a pipe 
between his teeth. His usually jolly face was 
haggard and lined with weariness. A director 
who is also an actor and a scenario author leads 
a hard life and burns his candle at both ends, 
physical and mental. 

“Well, girlie,” said he, “what is it?” 

“Jim,” said the young woman, “I’m not 
finicky like some of these moving-picture ac¬ 
tresses, am I?” 

“Not a single finick!” said Montague 
[ 312 ] 




SNOW STUFF 


heartily. “You’re a good little sport, Myrtle .’ 9 

“I try to be; but there’s a limit. I know the 
movie game, Jim—the woman’s end of it. We 
all have to stand for unpleasantnesses once in 
a while, annoying little things from people who 
don’t understand. It’s all in the day’s work; 
but-” 

“See here, what’s the matter?” interrupted 
Montague. “Tell your Uncle Jimmy, and he’ll 
fix it up in two shakes.” 

“I don’t know whether you can or not. It’s 
Gordan.” 

“What?” ejaculated the director. “Has he 
been bothering you?” 

“Only in little ways so far. He seems to 
think that his position with the company gives 
him privileges.” The girl laughed nervously. 
“Jim, I don’t in the least mind holding hands 
with a nice man—I rather like it; but this fat, 
soft creature—B-r-r-r! He gives me the 
shivers! ’ ’ 

Montague whistled softly to himself. 

“I’m not a baby, Jim. I can take care of 
myself, as you know. If he was an ordinary 
masher I could slap his face and send him about 
his business; but he’s the Western manager 
and that makes it difficult. He can make trouble 
for all of us, and he’s the kind of a man that’ll 
do it. How strong is he with Seligman?” 

“Pretty strong, I’m told,” said Montague 
ruefully. “He owns a chunk of stock in the 
concern; but if he owned it all he wouldn’t have 
[ 313 ] 








BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


any right to annoy the women in my company. 
I’ll give him a good bawling-ont the first thing 
in the morning. ’ ’ 

“No, don’t do that, Jim; there’s abetter way. 
I’ll avoid him as much as possible. You see, 
he doesn’t know any better. Chorus girls are 
the only stage people he knows anything about, 
and his ideas are wrong. He thinks that all he 
has to do is to flash his diamonds and make a 
conquest. Don’t say a word to him, but keep 
your eye on him.” 

“I’d like to punch his head!” said Mon¬ 
tague. 

“He wouldn’t know what he was being 
punched for, and you mustn’t get in bad on my 
account, Jim. Perhaps he won’t stay but a day 
or two longer. If I can’t make him keep his dis¬ 
tance I’ll come to you.” 

“All right,” said Montague. “But don’t 
you take any more freshness from him, under¬ 
stand?” 

“I won’t. And don’t stay up any later, Jim. 
You ought to be in bed. You look worn out.” 

“I’m fit as a fiddle!” said the director with 
a grin. “I could lick all the Gordan family— 
and I will if this fellow bothers you any more. 
Good-night, dear.” 

‘Good-night, Jim, and thank you.” 

The director watched his leading woman until 
her door closed behind her. Then he turned 
back into his office, and sitting down at the table 
dropped his chin in his hands. 

[ 314 ] 





SNOW STUFF 


“This moving-picture game is like a lot of 
other things,” he soliloquized. “It would be 
all right but for some of the people in it !” 


III 

“What next? For the love of Mike, what 
next ?’ ’ complained Buck Parvin, as he sat upon 
his sledge and eyed the seven malemutes re¬ 
proachfully. “I thought I’d done about every 
fool stunt that a movie actor could do, but this 
snow stuff has got me treed and out on a 
limb! ’’ 

“What ails you now?” asked Ben Leslie, the 
property man. “Seems to me you’re always 
kicking about something!” 

“I reckon you’d kick, too, if Jim made you 
the fall guy,” said Buck. “The first time we 
get a good snowstorm he wants me to lay out 
in it till I’m all covered over. I says to him: 
‘Be reasonable,’ I says. ‘Why can’t you pile 
a lot of snow on me and get through with it 
quick?’ ‘Because,’ he says, ‘it’s got to be 
drifted snow, and we can’t pile it so it’ll look 
natural.’ ‘Have a heart, Jim,’ I says. ‘I’ll 
freeze sure!’ He only laughed. ‘You’re sup¬ 
posed to be froze,’ he says, ‘and I want you to 
look the part when they dig you out!’ Can you 
beat that, Ben? Jim is too darned technical 
to suit me. There ain’t one man in a million 
that knows what snow looks like when it drifts 
[ 315 ] 







BUCK PABYIN AND THE MOVIES 


over a body, but Jim he makes his picture for 
that one man!’ * 

“That’s why he’s an artist,” said Ben. 

“Maybe so,” said Buck sullenly; “but if they 
go planting me in the snow for a couple of 
hours they’re liable to have a sure-enough 
corpse when they dig me out.” 

“Well,” said Ben, “Jim has got his troubles 
too.” 

Buck looked across toward the river, where 
the camera was planted. Montague was detail¬ 
ing the business of a scene to Miss Manners, 
and proceeding under difficulties by reason of 
the fact that the general Western manager was 
interrupting him with suggestions and loudly 
voiced opinions. 

“I never saw Jim take so much gab from 
anybody,” said Leslie. “I guess it’s because 
this bird is a big mogul in the New York of¬ 
fice. ’ ’ 

“Ain’t he the pest, though?” grinned Buck. 
“I’ve seen towns where they’d throw such a 
smoke on that feller that it would darken the 
sun for forty-eight hours. And fresh? Holy 
cat, do you know what he calls Myrtle ? Little 
One! He does, on the level! He better not get 
too gay with that lady or she’ll haul off and 
poke him in the nose. She’s husky, that girl 
is, and hard as nails, and I’ve seen her give 
that fat man a couple of looks that would have 
stopped anybody with a nickel’s worth of sense. 
[ 316 ] 






SNOW STUFF 


Iiow does a man like that get a job managing 
anything ?” 

“I give it up,” said Ben. 

“Now, then, Myrtle,” Montague was saying, 
“we’ll rehearse that struggle scene. You’ve 
fired the last shot in your gun and I’m closing 
in on you. You stop on the bank of the river 
and face me, registering fear. Just before I 
step over the line to grab you, club your pistol 
—take it by the barrel. As I come to you with 
my arms out strike at me hard. I’ll dodge it. 
"When I take hold of you resist all you can— 
fight me away from you. It ought to run about 
thirty feet, and at the end of the scene you sink 
down in the snow in a faint.” 

Together they ran through the scene and 
Montague stepped toward the camera to give 
instructions to Dupree. 

“One minute!” said Gordan. “I—I wasn’t 
quite satisfied with the way you played that 
scene, Montague.” 

“You—what?” Montague turned on him 
like a flash. 

“You didn’t put enough snap into it to suit 
me,” explained Gordan. “Not enough fire. I 
know how such a scene should be played, and 
there was something lacking. Miss Manners, 
she did fine; but your work—well, it didn’t get 
across with me, that’s all.” 

It was the last straw. Manager or no man¬ 
ager, this was the end. Montague opened his 
mouth, but before he could speak Miss Man- 
[ 317 ] 








BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


ners was tugging at his parka. He turned to 
look at her and was arrested by a singular 
gleam in her eye. There was a reason for that 
gleam. Mr. Gordan, pursuing his usual sys¬ 
tem with “ actresses/ ’ had passed from words 
to deeds. During the lunch hour he had at¬ 
tempted to kiss her behind a pine tree, and had 
laughed when she raged at the insult. 

‘ 4 You ’ll get over it, dearie,” he had said. 
“They always do.” 

“Jim,” said she sweetly, “if you will let 
Mr. Gordan show us what he means he may be 
able to suggest something that will strengthen 
the scene.” 

The general Western manager puffed out his 
chest. 

“Now you ’re talking! ’’ said he. “I can show 
you, all right. I don’t know as I could put it 
into words exactly, but I could act it out for 
you, Montague. A little more fire; a little more 
snap. Get me?” 

A swift glance passed between director and 
leading woman; the latter nodded almost im¬ 
perceptibly. 

1 ‘ Go ahead! ’ ’ said Montague gruffly. 

Mr. Gordan stripped off his overcoat and 
tossed it behind him. Then he buttoned his cut¬ 
away coat and patted his chest. 

“Now, then, girlie,” said he, “get back there 
by the river bank and fight just as hard as you 
want to.” 

Miss Manners took up her original position, 
[ 318 ] 




SNOW STUFF 


the swift water of the Truckee River behind 
and below her, and turned to register fear. 

“That’s great!” said Gordan, removing his 
hat and throwing it after his overcoat. “Keep 
looking right at me, girlie! Now, Montague, 
here’s the way I’d play this scene.” 

Mr. Gordan advanced over the side line, 
crouching as well as a fat man may, his pudgy 
hands hooked in front of him like claws. From 
a distance of five feet he sprang, which was not 
exactly what Miss Manners expected, and the 
revolver was pinned at her side. One fat arm 
encircled her waist, its mate wrapped itself 
about her throat. She struggled violently to 
free herself, but Gordan only laughed and held 
her closer. 

“This is what I mean, Montague!” he 
panted, and forcing the girl’s head back bent 
to kiss her. Montague leaped forward, but he 
was not needed. Miss Manners freed her right 
arm with a desperate jerk, and using the heavy 
revolver as a hammer struck with all her 
strength. The general Western manager 
grunted like a smitten ox, and reeling blindly 
backward plunged into ten feet of melted snow 
water. 

Half an hour later a very wet and vastly 
uncomfortable fat man awoke, to find himself 
careening toward Truckee behind seven male- 
mutes. 

“Don’t wiggle so much!” commanded Buck 
Parvin. “I had to tie you on to keep you from 
[ 319 ] 





BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


falling off. . . . What happened? Why, you 
forgot the business of that scene you was play¬ 
ing. You was to dodge when she swung the 
gun, and you didn’t do it. . . . Huh? Why 
sure it was a accident! You don’t think a lady 
like Miss Manners would bust you that way 
a purpose! I was standing right there and I 
heard Jim run over the scene with her. ‘Hit 
at me hard,’ he says. ‘I’ll dodge it.’ Then you 
set Jim’s cue out and went in to show him 
how, but you forgot to duck your head. It all 
comes of not sticking to your own game. I 
reckon you know plenty about regular stages 
that they have inside of theaters, but you don’t 
sabe the movies. On the regular stage they only 
pretend to hit you. In this business the wallops 
you get are on the level. And then you’re a 
manager. You ought to stuck to managing. 
Reminds me of a feller I used to know down 
in the Pecos country—Red-Eye Riley was his 
name. Red-Eye could ride a hawss in all the 
languages what is—Harry Brennan never did 
have nothing on that bird. Well, Red-Eye joins 
out with one of them rough-rider shows to be 
a actor. First day he worked he got to flirting 
with a pretty girl in the reserves, and was do¬ 
ing right well for himself till he got so inter¬ 
ested in the girl that he forgot he was on a 
bad hawss, and he ain’t been able to ride noth¬ 
ing but a wheelchair ever since. Now Red-Eye 
he would have been a good actor if he hadn’t 
tried to make a mash. . . . Huh? Hurxv more 
[ 320 ] 




SNOW STUFF 


and talk less? Why, yes, well hurry more if 
yon say so, but don’t holler if we have a spill. 
It’s hard to keep one of these fool sleds right 
side up. Mush—mush on! Hi-yah-yah-yah! 
Little speed there, Skookum!” 

It is rather difficult to keep a dog sledge on 
even keel. Given a fat man for a load, compli¬ 
cations multiply. Malemutes are uncertain 
brutes. This may explain why Mr. Gordan took 
nine headers into snowdrifts and became in¬ 
volved in three desperate dogfights on the way 
to the hotel. 

The same road was traveled later by James 
Montague and Myrtle Manners. 

“ Jim,” said the young woman, “when I gave 
you the nod I didn’t mean to hurt him—much. 
I meant to tap him on the head before he could 
get his hands on me and blame it on to the 
business of the scene. He—he needed a lesson. 
Then when he jumped at me and was so rough 
and nasty I think I would have killed him if 
I could, the beast!” 

“He got what was coming to him,” said the 
director grimly. 

“And now there’ll be trouble!” wailed the 
girl. “Do you think it would do any good to 
write Mr. Seligman exactly what happened and 
why?” 

“Dave is a mighty decent old coot,” said 
Montague, “but he’s bound to listen to Gordan. 
I think there’s a better way than a letter, but 
at any rate you needn’t worry your head. Selig- 
[ 321 ] 







BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


man won’t do anything to me because he needs 
me in his business, and as long as I’ve got a 
company you’ve got a job. Is that plain to 
you f’ ’ 

“ Jim,” said the leading woman, patting his 
arm, “you’re an angel!” 

“Uh-huh,” said the director; “but most of 
my wing feathers have molted.” 

IV 

Mr. Isadore Gordan returned to Fifth Ave¬ 
nue with inflammatory rheumatism in his joints 
and a three-cornered cut on his forehead that 
promised to leave a permanent scar. He cred¬ 
ited the rheumatism to Truckee’s damp climate. 
The cut upon his forehead, he explained to 
David Seligman, was a memento of a railroad 
wreck in the Far West. 

Mr. Gordan’s verbal report consumed almost 
an entire morning and contained everything 
but recommendations to mercy. David Selig¬ 
man, old and wise and an excellent judge of 
human nature, smoked black cigars and pon¬ 
dered before he rendered his verdict. 

“Well, Izzy,” said he, “you must have been 
a busy man. If I am to do what you say we 
will have no company left in Truckee at all. To 
begin with the camera man, he is fresh. Maybe 
so, but he is the first man to discover that keep¬ 
ing his camera frozen prevents static troubles. 
[ 322 ] 




SNOW STUFF 


He has saved us thousands of dollars by that 
trick alone, so he can be as fresh as he likes 
and keep his job. He might think of something 
else that will save us money. And this Buck 
Parvin, I know him well. Every time I go West 
he makes me laugh. I would keep him for that 
alone. 

“With regard to Montague, you can’t knock 
him to me and get away with it. Your personal 
troubles with him are nothing to mine. I fight 
with that fellow every time I see him, and then 
I raise his salary to keep him from thinking 
that I meant what I said. He is the best direc¬ 
tor in the country and he stays with us. That 
is final. 

“Now about this leading woman—you may 
be right. She ain’t a star and she owes every¬ 
thing to Montague. I have seen him work an 
hour with her on one scene until she played it 
to suit him. If you are sure you can get Miss 
Helmar away from the Elkay people I will 
agree to let Manners go. This much I will con¬ 
cede, Izzy; but you can’t touch Montague or 
the rest of the company, so you might as well 
quit talking. Manners we can spare if we can 
replace her with Delmar.” 

An office boy appeared. 

“Mr. Seligman,” said he, “they’re ready 
to run that snow stuff now. You said you 
wanted to see it.” 

“Come along, Izzy,” said Seligman. “You 
ought to be interested in this. It’s some that 
[ 323 ] 








BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


yon saw made. Montague writes me that he 
would like to have your opinion.” 

They went to the small projecting room, 
where for half an hour they watched snow 
scenes as they were thrown upon the screen— 
commenting, criticizing and commending. No 
connected story was told by the film; the reels 
that were shown were made up of miscellaneous 
scenes from three different pictures. 

“Manners isn’t so bad in this stuff,” said 
Seligman. “That love scene now—that was 
well done and she got the points over in good 
shape. ’ ’ 

“Too stiff—not natural enough,” said Gor- 
dan. 

“It was natural enough for me,” said Selig¬ 
man stubbornly. ‘ ‘ There she is again! ’ ’ 

There flickered upon the screen the picture 
of a girl in parka and hood. Behind her was 
the dark, swiftly flowing Truckee River, and 
the far background was a snow-covered slope, 
ragged with tamarack, pine and fir. Mr. Gor- 
dan stirred uneasily in his chair. 

“She’s pretty anyway,” said Mr. Seligman. 
“That’s one point that you can’t take away 
from her—her looks.” 

“She ain’t as pretty as Delmar,” said Gor- 
dan. “And Delmar is smarter.” 

“Manners is a nice little thing—a perfect 
lady,” said Seligman. “I wonder why she’s 
holding that pistol by the barrel? . . . Ah, now 
she registers fear. . . . Nothing the matter 
[ 324 ] 




SNOW STUFF 


with that acting, eh? . . . Hello, who’s this?” 

A fat gentleman in a cutaway coat came 
crouching into the picture. Mr. Gordan gasped. 
For an instant an unmistakable profile was sil¬ 
houetted against the white background, and 
David Seligman shouted with laughter. 

“Well, Izzy,” he cried, “since when have you 
been an actor?” 

‘ ‘ Stop that film!’ ’ bawled Gordan. ‘ ‘ Stop it!’ 9 

“What for?” asked Seligman. “Go ahead 
and run it, boy; I want to see it. ’ 9 

Mr. Gordan subsided, gurgling. The fat gen¬ 
tleman on the screen moved again, closer to the 
girl. 

“You look like you are getting ready to do 
the Apache dance with her , 9 ’ commented Selig¬ 
man. “Were you trying to scare her to 
death?” 

“I was showing Montague how to play the 
scene,” muttered Gordan. 

“You? You can’t show that man anything 
about acting! He—Good Lord, what’s this?” 

There came the spring, the embrace and the 
scuffle. Mr. Seligman stopped chuckling and 
his voice grew stern. 

‘ ‘ What’s the idea, Izzy ? Do you think you ’re 
a grizzly bear?” 

The swaying bodies were clearly defined 
against the whiteness of the snow. David Selig¬ 
man leaned forward; not a detail of that strug¬ 
gle escaped his keen eyes. It was also given 
to Mr. Gordan to see himself as others had 
[ 325 ] 








BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


seen him, and the sight was not a pleasant one. 

“Hit him, kid, hit him!” mnrmnred Selig- 
man. “Why don’t yon hit him?” 

Slowly the fat man forced the girl’s chin up¬ 
ward, and as he bent over her David Seligman 
gave vent to an ejaculation of disgust. 

“You showing Montague how to play the 
scene! You just wanted an excuse to kiss the 
girl. Bah! ’ ’ 

Suddenly there was a flash of a fur-clad arm, 
the fat man’s head snapped as if on a hinge, 
and Mr. Gordan saw himself reel over the bank 
and disappear with a mighty splash. 

“Oh, good!” shouted Seligman. “Good for 
you, kid! Hoo-ray!” 

44 She hit me on purpose, ’ ’ mumbled Mr. Gor¬ 
dan, naming the particular bit of action that 
interested him the most. 4 4 Anybody can see 
she did. It was a frame-up!” 

44 Sure she hit you on purpose!” cried Selig¬ 
man. 4 4 Bless her little heart, of course she did! 
Do you think because we make you a Western 
manager it gives you a license to pull stuff like 
that? You would have had no kick coming if 
she had shot you! And that’s why you say she 
can’t act, eh?” 

An argument rose in the projecting room, 
waxed loud and lasted long. Tempers went 
to smash and the naked truth had an airing. 

“I tell you this, Dave,” shouted Gordan. 
4 4 Whatever I did makes no never-minds with 
[ 326 ] 





SNOW STUFF 


me. She goes or I go, and that is all there is 
about it!” 

David Seligman scratched his chin. 

“Well, Izzy,” said he, “I am sorry yon put 
it that way, because now I wouldn’t fire that 
little woman under any circumstances. Not if 
she was the worst actress in the world! I got 
to have better reasons than that she hit you on 
the head. I always said that she was a perfect 
lady. And so that was your train wreck? Ho, 
ho!” 

Mr. Gordan’s sudden resignation as general 
Western manager of the Titan Company pro¬ 
voked a great deal of comment in the moving- 
picture world and speculation as to the cause 
went wild and unbridled. A rumor traveling 
westward said that an unauthorized strip of 
film, appearing with the day’s batch—perhaps 
by accident—had shuffled the seat checks of the 
mighty, but the young man who was in a posi¬ 
tion to deny or affirm continued to freeze his 
camera nightly and keep his own counsel. It 
took a point-blank question from Buck Parvin 
to get anything out of him. 

“Kid,” said the cowpuncher, “it was a 
smooth piece of work. I was standing right 
there at the time, and I didn’t see Jim give you 
the office to turn the crank on his royal fatness. 
When was that little job cooked up?” 

“It wasn’t cooked at all,” answered Charlie 
Dupree. “I’d been watching that lobster and 
[ 327 ] 








BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


I knew what he was up to. I thought maybe 
Seligman would like to know too. You can put 
a man on the witness stand and he’ll lie; but if 
you pull a moving picture on him—good night! 
Jim didn’t know what I was going to do and 
he didn’t see me swing round to get the focus, 
but he tumbled as soon as he heard the camera 
begin to click, and I guess that’s why Gordan 
wasn’t licked on the spot.” 

“I got to hand it to you,” said Buck admir¬ 
ingly. ‘‘You’re a bear!” 

‘ ‘ Huh! ’ ’ said Dupree. ‘ ‘ I know action when 
I see it. Maybe that’s why the old man raised 
my salary.” 

“He’d have raised mine, too, if there’d been 
any pictures of that sled trip back to Truckee,” 
said Buck. ‘ 4 There was sure some action there! 
But I never have no luck. It’s going to snow 
to-day and Jim is going to freeze me. If I’m 
dead when they dig me out you send a strip of 
the film to my girl, will you?” 


[ 328 ] 




“THIS IS THE LIFE!” 


M R. ELMER GRIBBLE pecked at the 
heart of a cantaloupe and soberly 
regarded the vacant chair on the op¬ 
posite side of the breakfast table. 
He was thinking of the time when his wife 
would not have trusted a servant to pour his 
morning coffee for him. Once on the backward 
trail, Mr. Gribble *s memory slipped easily to 
the honeymoon period when there had been no 
servant to trust—the honeymoon, when Addie 
did her own cooking. 

Mr. Gribble recalled the breaded veal cutlets 
of his early married life and his mouth watered. 
He was a very ordinary person, entirely hu¬ 
man, and he found it hard to accustom himself 
to promiscuous parsley decorations and pink 
tissue-paper frills on the shank of a lamb chop. 
Prosperity had brought Elmer Gribble noth¬ 
ing which he would not have exchanged for the 
simple but solid comforts of the honeymoon 
days—mashed potatoes with brown country 
gravy, for instance. 

Boggs, the butler, entered with stealthy tread 
[ 329 ] 









BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


and noiselessly deposited a covered dish upon 
the table before Mr. Gribble. 

‘ ‘ That ’ll be all, ’ ’ said the master of the house, 
and Boggs, murmuring deferentially, withdrew 
to the kitchen. Mr. Gribble did not like Boggs 
—never had liked him. 

“He makes me nervous,” was Gribble’s usual 
complaint. “I like my bread with gravy on it 
and I haven’t got the nerve to eat it with that 
lantern-jawed scarecrow hanging over me and 
watching every bite! . . . Oh, I know he’s right 
about it! He’s always right and that’s what 
ails him. Bread and gravy may not be used 
in the best circles, but, confound it, Addie, I 
was raised on it and I like it! I wish you’d fire 
that fellow!” 

But Boggs remained, Mrs. Gribble insisting 
that a manservant lent tone to the establish¬ 
ment. Mrs. Gribble had her own way in most 
things. Mr. Gribble offered futile suggestions, 
fussed a little and paid the bills, this last being 
the end for which he was created. 

After Boggs had disappeared Mr. Gribble 
cautiously lifted one edge of the silver cover 
and a groan escaped him. 

‘ ‘ Another omelet! ’ ’ said he. ‘‘ And I’ve got 
salesmen that I pay less money than Addie pays 
that infernal cook!” 

Enter Adeline Gribble, almost forty, almost 
fat, yawning lazily into the sleeve of an elabo¬ 
rate dressing sack. A lace and ribbon bou¬ 
doir cap did its best to conceal a hastily twisted 
[ 330 ] 





“this is the life!” 


mass of blonde hair, the escaping wisps in 
strong contrast with the darkly penciled brows. 
The lady, passing behind her lord but by no 
means her master, bent and touched her lips to 
his bald spot. 

“I thought you’d be gone by this time,” said 
she. “It isn’t a legal holiday, is it?” 

“Addie,” said Mr. Gribble, suddenly, “do 
you remember the breaded veal cutlets that we 
used to have the first year we were married?” 

Mrs. Gribble shuddered and rolled her eyes 
theatrically. 

“Never mention that year to me!” she ex¬ 
claimed. “When I think of the hours I put in 
over that miserable gas stove, I declare it makes 
me ill. Mercy! I wouldn’t work that hard 
again for the best man on earth!” 

“You didn’t seem to mind it so much in those 
days,” suggested the husband. 

“That was because I wasn’t used to anything 
better. ” There were moments when Mrs. Grib¬ 
ble forgot herself and was frank. “I worked 
like a slave because you couldn’t afford to hire 
a girl, but I notice the minute you got able we 
had one. A wife ought to help her husband 
when he needs it but after he gets his start and 
can afford a cook and servants-” 

“Of course!” interrupted Mr. Gribble. “Of 
course. Have I ever refused you anything?” 

“It wouldn’t be healthy for you, my dear,” 
smiled the lady, leisurely beginning on her can¬ 
taloupe. She was as soft and dainty and indo- 
[ 331 ] 






BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


lent as a pampered white cat and Mr. Gribble 
watched her face with the anxious manner of 
one who scents an unpleasant topic in the air. 

“I’ve spoiled you, Addie,” said he. It was 
an unfortunate remark. 

Mrs. Gribble sniffed. 

“Pm not the spoiling kind,” said she, “and 
you know it. I might even become very famous 
and it wouldn’t spoil me.” 

Mr. Gribble’s head went back between his 
shoulders as if he had received a blow. 

“For pity’s sake! You haven’t got that fool 
idea in your head yet, have you?” 

“It’s not a fool idea, my dear,” said Mrs. 
Gribble with calmness. “It’s a very sensible 
idea. There’s many a leading woman who 
hasn’t my natural talent. Nothing but my voice 
kept me off the stage when I was a girl. I 
ruined it squalling ‘ Cash! ’ when I was in that 
wretched department store-” 

“Oh, don’t say that,” interrupted Mr. Grib¬ 
ble, vainly hoping to turn the conversation into 
other channels. “Don’t say that. It was there 
that you met me, my dear. Do you remem¬ 
ber-” 

“Absolutely ruined it,” continued Mrs. Grib¬ 
ble, thus proving herself a lady of single ideas 
and simple mental processes, “but now that 
the movies have come in, the voice doesn’t mat¬ 
ter. It’s the face and the acting. Last night 
I went to three picture shows. I saw that big 
five-reel feature at the Coliseum and the woman 
[ 332 ] 






“this is the life!” 


who took the part of the adventuress was ter¬ 
rible—simply terrible! If I couldn ’t do better 
than that I’d be ashamed of myself. She didn’t 
get her points over at all—no more expression 
in her face than there is in a piece of putty! 
Anne Amber had the other woman’s part. I 
can’t see for the life of me why they’re always 
raving about her. They say she’s got film 
charm and screen magnetism and all that sort 
of thing. Kubbish! She’s got big eyes and 
when you’ve said that you’ve said everything! 
She can’t act, and thin! Why, it’s pitiful to 
see her! If people like that can get big reputa¬ 
tions, why can’t I!” 

“Now, Addie, you’re not really taking this 
thing seriously, are you?” Mr. Gribble’s face 
expressed deep concern. “Why should you 
want to paint yourself up like a cigar store In¬ 
dian and cavort around in front of a camera? 
Haven’t you got everything you want? A big 
house and servants and two automobiles 
and-” 

“Everything, Elmer,” said Mrs. Gribble, 
“but a career.” 

6 ‘ A career! ’ ’ exploded her husband. ‘‘ What 
business have you got with a career? Vm your 
career!’ ’ 

Mrs. Gribble smiled pityingly.. 

“You don’t understand,” said she. “A 
woman has got to have some aim in life. That’s 
why so many of ’em join Shakespeare Clubs 
and take up suffrage. I’m tired of doing noth- 
[ 333 ] 






BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


ing but amusing myself—tired of being idle. 
Sometimes it seems as if I can’t stand it an¬ 
other day.” 

“If that’s the case,” said Mr. Gribble, “you 
might go out in the kitchen and teach that cook 
a few things. There’s a regular job for you, 
any time you want to tackle it.” 

‘ ‘ I think I see myself! ’ ’ 

“Well,” said Mr. Gribble, “it isn’t as hard 
work as being an actress, Addie.” 

“Next week,” said Mrs. Gribble, calmly ig¬ 
noring this remark, “I am going over to the 
Titan Studio and have a talk with Mr. Monta¬ 
gue. I’ve seen him in the pictures so often that 
I feel as if I know him. I’m going to ask him 
if he can find a place for me.” 

“You’re what?” ejaculated Mr. Gribble, 
startled. 

‘ 4 Mr. Montague is a director. He uses a num¬ 
ber of people. Directors are always in search 
of types-” 

“Let ’em search, but you keep away from 
those places!” Mr. Gribble actually raised 
his voice. 

“Why, Elmer,” said the wife, “are you pre¬ 
pared to take the responsibility for interfering 
with my development ? Are you ? ’ ’ 

“You bet I’m prepared!” said Mr. Gribble. 
“You ain’t going to develop into a darned fool 
if I have anything to say about it! My wife—» 
an actress? I won’t stand for it, and you 
[ 334 ] 






i ‘ THIS IS THE LIFE!” 


might just as well hang up your fiddle now, d’ye 
hear?” 

Warm words followed, and in the end Mrs. 
Gribble wept and called heaven to witness a 
very unhappy woman. Heaven had already 
witnessed a very unhappy man. 

6 6 I d-d-don’t see how you can be so c-c-cruel!’ 9 
sobbed Mrs. Gribble, snuffling behind her hand¬ 
kerchief. 

“I don’t either, Addie,” said her spouse, 
miserably, “but it’s for your own good.” 

“I w-w-wanted to go into this with your 
c-c-consent,” quavered Mrs. Gribble, “but now 
you force me to g-g-go without it! ” 

Mr. Gribble threw up both hands and left 
the room. He recognized defeat when he met 
it, even if he did not salute it with a bow. 

Again the Gribbles at table, though not in 
the breakfast room this time. Mr. Gribble had 
been late for dinner but his carefully rehearsed 
excuses were not needed. The lady of his house¬ 
hold was so filled with important tidings that 
she could not possibly have contained a syllable 
of reproach. The news began to spill over the 
edges as Mr. Gribble entered the room. 

“It’s all settled!” she cried. “I’m to start 
next Thursday!” 

Mr. Gribble tucked his napkin into the front 
of his waistcoat and waved Boggs from the 
room. Then he asked the question which opened 
the flood-gates. 


[ 335 ] 








BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


“Start what?” said he. 

“Why, work, of course—a special two reel 
feature for the Titan Company—star part, El¬ 
mer, think of that!—saw Mr. Montague to-day 
—oh, my dear, you must meet him—he’s exactly 
the sort of man you’d like and so clever—he 
had a scenario which exactly fits my personality 
—the very thing for me—he said as soon as he 
saw me that I was the perfect type—and he 
was on the verge of giving up hope of produc¬ 
ing it because he hadn’t been able to get the 
woman to look the lead and play it too—the 
minute I walked into his office he knew that I 
was the one he’d been hunting for—just as 
quick as that—didn’t even have to ask him for 
an engagement—he offered this part to me of 
his own accord—it’s a mining camp story with 
a strong heart interest and wonderful oppor¬ 
tunities for emotional acting—he says no young 
girl could possibly play it and-” 

“Wait! Wait!” Mr. Gribble waved his 
hands over his head. “That’s enough! Now 
what in Sam Hill is this all about, Addie?” 

“Why, I’ve got an engagement!” 

“A job, you mean.” 

“An engagement,” corrected Mrs. Gribble. 
“I’m to have the star part in the picture!” 

“Good Lord!” groaned Mr. Gribble. “So 
soon?” 

“Now, Elmer, let’s not go all over that 
again,” said the wife. “It won’t do the least 
good. My mind is made up.” 

[ 336 ] 





“this is the life!” 


Mr. Gribble sigbed and selected a fork—the 
wrong one. 

“Well,” said he, heavily, “if yon must, yon 
must, though why yon want to make yourself 
ridiculous is more’n I know.” 

“I won’t make myself ridiculous, my dear,” 
said the lady, “and you needn’t be afraid that 
I’ll disgrace you. I’m taking a stage name, 
of course. Adeline Aldine. Mr. Montague 
thought that would be better than Gribble.” 

“Oh, he did, did he?” The worm turned 
sharply at this bit of information. “Too bad 
about that. I suppose you’ll still use the name 
of Gribble when you’re having things charged 
at the stores, eh?” This sarcasm was wasted. 

“Certainly. Aldine is only a stage name. 
Don’t be silly.” 

“I hope that you told this Montague that 
you ’re a married woman! ’ ’ 

“Why should I tell him anything of my pri¬ 
vate aft airs ? And, anyway, a big director like 
Mr. Montague hasn’t time for anything but 
business.” 

‘ ‘ He better not have! ’ ’ growled Mr. Gribble, 
and his wife squealed with delight. 

“Why, Elmer, would you really be jealous of 
me?” she cried. 

Mr. Gribble ceased investigating his shrimp 
cocktail and spoke with feeling. 

“I’m jealous of anything that takes you away 
from me,” said he. “I’m jealous of this crazy 
notion of yours, Addie. But since you’ve set 
[ 337 ] 







BUCK PABVIN AND THE MOVIES 


your heart on it and you’re determined to try 
it, I won’t stand in your way. You’ll have to 
have your fling at it and then you’ll find that 
your home is a pretty b good place after all. Go 
ahead, Addie, but don’t expect me to wish you 
luck! ’ ’ 

“You’re a darling!” said Mrs. Gribble, blow¬ 
ing him a kiss. “I’ve always said there never 
was a man just like you, Elmer! ’ ’ 

“M-well,” said Mr. Gribble, slowly, “maybe 
there’s more to me than appears on the sur¬ 
face.” 


n 

On Wednesday afternoon there was consider¬ 
able bad language at the studio of the Titan 
Company. The name of James Montague, di¬ 
rector, came in for frequent mention and Buck 
Parvin, moving picture cowpuncher, voiced a 
general sentiment. 

“Talk about your slave drivers!” said he. 
“Jim Montague can play Simon Legree with¬ 
out a makeup—all he needs is the bull-whip. 
Last Monday he told me that I wouldn’t have 
to show up here to-morrow and on the strength 
of that I framed up a little trip to the beach 
and asked my girl to go along. Jim waits until 
to-day and then changes his mind. ‘All mem¬ 
bers of the company on the job at eight o ’clock! ’ 
My girl is kind of haughty and high-spirited, 
she is. If I make a date with her, I got to keep 
[ 338 ] 






“this is the life!” 


it or dig up a better alibi than IVe bad yet. 
I don’t reckon she’ll stand for this. Think I 
could sue Jim for alienatin’ her affections 
away from me, Ben?” 

Ben Leslie, the property man, was not in¬ 
formed upon the legal point, but he was positive 
about some other points which he mentioned. 

“Something has happened to Jim’s sched¬ 
ule,” said he, “but I don’t know what it is. 
He expected to loaf Thursday and Friday, but 
this morning he handed me a long list of junk 
that he wants first thing to-morrow morning. 
A kitchen set, a red-hot stove and a dishpan 
full of pancake batter. He says the hotter the 
stove the better. Now what do you know about 
that?” 

“Not a thing.” said Buck, “except that he 
won’t need it if this weather holds. Those pan¬ 
cakes will just naturally fry in the sun. But 
seems to me I heard that this picture was going 
to be a costume affair.” 

“It is,” said Ben. “Shirts of mail, tin hel¬ 
mets and all that sort of stuff. That’s why I 
can’t figure out why Jim wants a mop, a scrub¬ 
bing brush, a washtub and boiler, laundry soap 
and a rubbing board. Oh, yes, and some dirty 
clothes.” 

“Huh!” said Buck. “Jim must be going to 
stage the beginnin’ of some of our best fam¬ 
ilies! I got a lot of dirty clothes up to my 
room. If this scenario calls for a sure-enough 
cleanin’ I’ll bring ’em along.” 

[ 339 ] 





BUCK PARVIH AKD THE MOVIES 


“You will not,” said Ben. “If anybody is 
going to beat the laundry out of some dough, it 
will be me. Nothing like taking advantage of 
the realism in a moving picture.’’ 

“Yell,” said Buck, “if they’re goin’ to have 
pancakes on tap here to-morrow, I see where 
I save lunch money.” 

“You?” chuckled Ben. “You never saved a 
nickel in your life! ’ ’ 

“I know it,” said the cowpuncher. “All sil¬ 
ver is quicksilver to me and the only stuff that 
ever slips between my fingers any faster is gold. 
I’m like a friend of mine named Billy Williams. 
Billy used to say that he was born without a 
nickel and still had it. Well, so long. I’m goin’ 
to break the news to my girl. The feller that in¬ 
vented the telephone sure saved the rest of us 
a lot of hair, eh?” 


Ill 

The arrival of Mrs. Gribble at the studio was 
something of an event. At seven-thirty came 
an express wagon and a solemn-visaged mulatto 
woman who superintended the unloading of two 
trunks and three suitcases. Ben Leslie, tinker¬ 
ing with an old-fashioned cook stove, was the 
only human in sight at that unearthly hour and 
to him the mulatto woman appealed. 

“Yere’s Miss Aldine’s stuff. I got to git it 
unpacked right away. Whah do it go ? ” 

[ 340 ] 





“this is the life!” 


The promptness with which Ben answered 
the question indicated that he had received 
definite information of some sort. He led the 
way to the smallest, stuffiest dressing room in 
the line, and opened the door. It was unoccu¬ 
pied save by two cockroaches, scurrying in agi¬ 
tated circles. 

“Land o’ Goshen!” ejaculated the woman. 
“Miss Addie, she gwine dress in dishyer nasty 
lid cubby-hole? Why, dey ain’ room to hang 
her gownds, let done me an’ her! Dis de bes’ 
’commodations y’all got fo’ a leadin’ lady? 
Common folks mus’ have to dress in de street, 
I reckon. . . . Oh, well, show me a broom till I 
sweep up dis trash!” 

Promptly at eight o’clock an electric coupe 
drew up at the street door and Mrs. Gribble 
descended, faultlessly attired in a blue walking 
suit, with turban to match. Buck Parvin eyed 
both lady and coupe with speculative interest. 

“Walks like a tragedy queen,” was his com¬ 
ment, “but drives up to the door in her own 
car.” Then, after thought: “It can’t be 
done! ’ ’ 

It became evident that the stranger knew 
her way to Montague’s office and the mystery 
deepened. 

“She’s been here before,” said Buck. “May¬ 
be it’s a society queen, wanting to see how she 
looks on a screen. Maybe it’s commercial stuff. 
Ben ought to know. I’ll ask him.” 

Mr. Montague nodded approvingly at sight 

[ 341 ] 








BUCK PAR YIN AND THE MOVIES 


of the newest member of his company, but 
wasted little time in idle conversation. He 
was, indeed, all business, and spoke in brisk, 
clipped sentences. 

“Ah, Miss Aldine! Prompt, I see. Dress¬ 
ing room eleven, please. The first scene shows 
you as the keeper of a boarding house in a 
mining town—a hard-working woman in re¬ 
duced circumstances. It’s a kitchen scene and 
you are cooking breakfast for the men. Change 
at once, please.” 

“But, Mr. Montague,” protested the lady, 
“don’t you think I should know something 
more about the story—the plot—or how can I 
do the part justice? You ought to tell me-” 

“Not necessary at all,” interrupted the di¬ 
rector, bending over a typewritten document. 
“I never allow my actors to read the script. 
It only confuses ’em and they get their ideas 
mixed with mine. I will outline each scene as 
we come to it—explain the business and re¬ 
hearse the action. The first thing you must 
learn is to do exactly as you are told. No ques¬ 
tions. No objections. Implicit and immediate 
obedience. Oh, Jennings! Show Miss Aldine 
to her dressing room. And remember, not too 
much makeup on the face—about as you are, I 
should say—but dress a boarding-house keeper 
in reduced circumstances. Change quickly, 
please. The stage is waiting for you.” 

“Is he always—that way?” asked Mrs. Grab¬ 
ble, as she meekly followed Montague’s assist- 
[ 342 ] 









* * THIS IS THE LIFE!” 


ant across the stage toward the dressing rooms. 

“Huh!” said Jennings. “He’s mild this 
morning—for him. If you want to hear him cut 
loose, talk back to him or keep him waiting on a 
scene. He drives a company harder than any 
man in the world, hut he gets results. Some¬ 
times we do forty scenes a day.” 

After the lady had disappeared, Montague 
strolled out upon the great stage. The kitchen 
setting was complete, the carpenter was at work 
upon a parlor interior, the stove was drawing 
well and Ben Leslie, who made his boast that 
he had never yet been asked to do an impossible 
thing, was mixing an immense quantity of bat¬ 
ter in a dishpan, measuring milk and water with 
a practiced hand. Buck Parvin stood at his 
elbow, offering advice. A stagehand rushed up 
to Montague. 

“What’s this about no diffusers this morn¬ 
ing, Mr. Montague?” 

“Don’t want ’em,” said the director. “We 
want all the sun we can possibly get. The 
hotter the better. And remember what I told 
you last night. I’ll murder the man who 
laughs. ’ ’ 

“Yes, sir,” said the stagehand. 

“Oh, Buck!” called Montague. 

Parvin approached, grinning. 

‘ ‘ Go and borrow Jennings ’ dress suit. Put on 
a black mustache and get a cigarette and a 


cane. 


[ 343 ] 







BUCK PARVIIT AND THE MOVIES 


“Aw, say,” wheedled Buck, “let me in on 
this, Jim. Who is the beautiful lady?” 

“She thinks she’s an actress and so far as 
you’re concerned, she is one. Get me? Do 
exactly what I tell you, don’t burlesque anything 
and ask no questions.” 

“And you won’t come through?” said Buck. 

“I’ll come through with a right swing if you 
don’t get into that clawhammer.” 

“I don’t know where I’m going,” said Buck, 
cheerfully, “or why, but I’m on my way. Gid- 
dap! ’ ’ 

In the meantime temperament, the eternal 
feminine and the stern realities of stage life 
were clashing in an already overcrowded dress¬ 
ing room. Budding ambition about to burst 
into bloom alone kept the eternal feminine from 
tears after Mrs. Gribble had squeezed herself 
into her narrow quarters. 

‘ 6 What a dreadful place! ’ ’ she cried. ‘ ‘ Quick, 
Martha! My pink house dress and boudoir cap. 
Do hurry! The stage is waiting.” 

! “De stage kin wait, Miss Addie,” said the 
mulatto woman, calmly. “It kain’t go nowhar 
’thout y’all on it, I reckon. Yo’ ’spect I’m 
gwine th’ow yo’ cloze onto yo’ any whichaway? 
A actress got to look like quality folks.” 

Followed a period of breathless exertion 
which was interrupted by a knock on the door. 

• “Hurry, Miss Aldine! We are waiting on 
you! ’ ’ 

“Coming!” cried Mrs. Gribble, frantically 
[ 344 ] 







“this is the life!” 


powdering her nose. 1 ‘ The cap, quick, Martha I 
That’s the director himself! Just a minute, 
Mr. Montague! ’’ 

The one minute lengthened into seven before 
a pink silk vision appeared upon the stage, 
aflutter with lace and ribbons. Being entirely 
a woman, Mrs. Gribble was prepared to create 
a sensation and she did, but the sensation was 
not exactly of the sort which she had expected. 

Jimmy Montague was standing by the cam¬ 
era, conferring with Charlie Dupree, the Titan 
Company’s film wizard. Hearing the tap of 
high-heeled slippers, the director whirled in his 
tracks and Mrs. Gribble’s conception of a board¬ 
ing-house keeper in reduced circumstances 
smote him in its gorgeous entirety. Montague 
staggered and tore his hair. 

“Not a bit like it!” he shouted. “Is that 
your idea of a kitchen slavey, Miss Aldine? 
You are cooking for twenty miners in Blue 
Butte, Montana! You don’t own a scrap of 
silk and you’ve never seen a high-heeled slip¬ 
per in your life! Go back and take those fluffy- 
ruffles off and dress the part!” 

“I—I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Gribble, humbly. 
“I thought-” 

“I’ll do the thinking for you!” stormed Mon¬ 
tague. “Go back and put on a gingham dress, 
a dirty one for preference. . . . You haven’t 
one? Wait a minute!” He raced across the 
stage and plunged into the wardrobe room, re¬ 
turning immediately with a checkered atrocity 
[ 345 ] 









BUCK PABVIN AND THE MOVIES 


known as a Mother Hubbard and a pair of 
knitted slippers. 

“Take off those corsets/’ he commanded, 
“and do yonr hair up in a little knob on the 
back of yonr neck! It’s contrast I’m after, 
woman, contrast! I want yon to make yonrself 
just as nnattractive as possible because in the 
second reel we show yon in yonr mansion on 
Fifth Avenue—the butterfly escaped from the 
chrysalis! As an artist, yon must learn to 
subordinate everything to art—even yonr per¬ 
sonal appearance. It’s contrast I must have! 
Now hurry!” 

Much abashed, Mrs. Gribble returned to her 
dressing room where she wept and explained 
matters to Martha, who was unpacking the suit¬ 
cases. The faithful servitor listened with open 
mouth and saucer eyes. 

“Miss Addie, yo’ ain’ neveh gwine get yo’ 
picture tooken in dis rag?” said she. 

“I must. The director says so,” wailed the 
poor lady. 

“I’d direct him!” snapped Martha. “Yo’ 
lemme go talk to dat man!” 

This time the wait was a long one, but when 
the Blue Butte boarding-house keeper appeared 
she was wearing the Mother Hubbard and her 
hair was neatly coiled at the back of her neck. 
Montague surveyed her critically. 

“Well, that’s some better,” said he, grudg¬ 
ingly, “but you look too clean—too tidy. Oh, 
Langdon!” 


[ 346 ] 






The scenic artist whooped from his work 
room. 

4 4 Send a stooge here with a brush and some 
black paint,” ordered Montagne. A disrepu¬ 
table looking youth obeyed the summons. 4 4 Slop 
that dress up,” said the director. 44 And you 
might put a little dab on her nose while you’re 
about it. That hair will never do, either .’ 9 He 
laid violent hands upon the neat coil and shook 
it this way and that until the loose ends ap¬ 
peared in a golden aureole and one braid hung 
down the lady’s back. 

4 4 That’s more like it , 9 9 said Montague. 4 4 In a 
picture, we strive for absolute fidelity to life. 
You are an overworked woman; you have no 
time to spend on primping—boy, put a little 
paint on these hands! ’’ 

While Langdon’s apprentice splashed away 
with his brush, Mrs. Gribble found time to look 
about her. The stage was filling up with the 
members of the company and her heart leaped 
as she recognized her film favorites in the flesh 
—handsome Jack La Bue, the leading man, and 
Myrtle Manners, the leading woman. She even 
recognized Buck Parvin, in spite of the almost 
impenetrable disguise of evening dress, mus¬ 
tache and cane. These were the real actors, 
the movie stars, and they were to appear in her 
support! Their listless half-interested attitude 
went far to convince her that everything which 
was happening to her was part of the routine 
[ 347 ] 






BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


and all in tlie day’s work. The thought com¬ 
forted her immeasurably. 

“Now then, to the stove, Miss Aldine!” 

She drew a deep breath and advanced, one 
eye upon the camera. Under skilful stoking 
the ancient wood-burner was throwing off a 
surprising amount of heat. Even the stage¬ 
hands gave it a wide berth. 

“You are making pancakes,” said Montague, 
consulting his script. “By the way, I am as¬ 
suming that you know how to cook ? ’’ 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Gribble. “I can cook.” 

‘ ‘ Good! ’ 9 said Montague. i 1 But can you flip 
a pancake in the air? That is purely a western 
trick. It comes under the head of atmosphere, 
local color. Do you know how to do that ? 9 9 

“I never tried it,” said Mrs. Gribble. 

61 Try it now. We ’ll rehearse the scene. First 
you grease the pan with the bacon rind. Then 
you pour the batter. When the times comes 
to turn the cake you pick up the frying pan, 
so, and toss the cake into the air. That stamps 
you at once as a western woman. This is one 
of the first scenes in the picture and I want as 
much atmosphere in it as possible. Try it, 
please.” 

Mrs. Gribble bent over the stove. The terrific 
heat made her gasp, but obedient to stage direc¬ 
tions, she greased the pan, spooned out the 
batter and leaned over the fiery furnace until 
her very soul seemed to be shriveling in the 
blast. 


[ 348 ] 





‘‘this is the life!” 


“It’s about ready now,” said Montague. 
“Flip it!” 

Now those who have tried it know that flip¬ 
ping a pancake is an art acquired only by long 
practice. Mrs. Gribble’s first attempt splashed 
upon the floor. 

* ‘ Too bad, ’ ’ said Montague. 4 ‘ Make another, 
please, and save all the cakes. We will need 
them later for the breakfast scene.” 

A second attempt fell upon the stove, con¬ 
tributing an unappetizing odor. The third, 
fourth and fifth also met with disaster. Mrs. 
Gribble’s face was crimson where it was not 
black; her makeup was furrowed with tiny rivu¬ 
lets ; she was rapidly being reduced to a liquid 
state and all the while Montague, in the shade 
and not too close to the stove, was patience it¬ 
self. 

“You must keep on until you learn. Again, 
please,” and he spoke of the sacrifices neces¬ 
sary for art’s sake. At last the perspiring 
martyr mastered the technique and the camera 
man took his place at the crank. 

“Now we’ll make it,” said Montague. 
“Ready—action—closer over the stove, Miss 
Aldine!—go! ’ ’ 

The camera clicked as a camera will even 
when the magazine is empty, and Mrs. Gribble 
bent bravely over the despised frying pan. The 
batter bubbled and widened on the greased sur¬ 
face, grew firm and the bubbles changed to tiny 
holes. Mrs. Gribble grasped the handle firmly, 
[ 349 ] 






BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


a toss and a jerk sent the cake flying into the 
air, it described a perfect half circle and fell 
back into the pan- 

“Stop!” yelled Montague. “Yon looked at 
the camera and registered triumph! You must 
never look at the camera, never! Do it again, 
please, and watch nothing but the pan. Ready !’ 9 

At last the director announced himself as 
pleased and Mrs. Gribble collapsed into a chair, 
panting for breath and mopping her face with 
the sleeve of her Mother Hubbard. 

“Next we have a parlor scene,” said Monta¬ 
gue, briskly. “Your ball dress, please, and at 
once . 1 9 

Jennings pounded on her door at least half a 
dozen times before Mrs. Gribble appeared. 
She was entirely satisfied with herself until she 
felt the estimating eye of the director upon 
her. 

“Not so bad,” said Montague, glancing at the 
Paquin gown. “Your shoulders are a little 
beefy, though. . . . Oh, Buck!” 

1 ‘That’s me!” answered Parvin, swaggering 
forward, twirling a cane. 

“And this is Mr. Parvin!” gushed the lady. 
“Do you know, IVe seen you do so many won¬ 
derful things—on the screen, of course—that 
I feel as if-” 

‘ 4 Attention, please !’ 9 said Montague. “Now 
this is the business of the scene. You are in 
your drawing room in New York. This man 
holds the secret of your past. He comes to you 
[ 350 ] 





“this is the life!” 


threatening exposure. You plead for mercy. 
He laughs. You drag yourself to him on your 
knees. You seize his hands and weep. He 
spurns you and hurls you to the floor. Then 
he exits. Rehearse it, please!” 

With much prompting and advice, Mrs. Grib- 
ble struggled through the scene. Buck’s nat¬ 
ural weakness for the softer sex asserted itself 
in the spurning process and Montague yapped 
savagely. 

“I said hurl her, Parvin, and I want you to 
do it! Slam her down hard!’ ’ 

“Real hard?” asked Buck. 

“You bet your life. You’re not only a bad 
man; you’re a brute. Remember that. Under¬ 
stand, Miss Aldine, when a moving picture ac¬ 
tor takes a fall, it’s a real fall. That’s the only 
way we can make it register. No slides and no 
subterfuges. Don’t try to save your dress and 
fall as hard as you can. Again, please.” 

Five times the lady dragged herself after 
Buck, was by him spurned and hurled to the 
floor and at last Montague announced himself 
as satisfied. Mrs. Gribble was more than satis¬ 
fied. Art is art, but a bruised hip is another 
matter and so is a ruined gown. 

“I—I’m all out of breath!” gasped Mrs. 
Gribble. “It—it’s hard work, isn’t it?” 

“This emotional actin’ ain’t nothing,” 
grinned Buck. “Wait till we get to the stunt 
stuff. You never can tell what a director’ll ask 
[ 351 ] 





BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


you to do. Once I played a outlaw and it was 

in the script that I had to be lynched-” 

“Mercy!” exclaimed Mrs. Gribble. 

‘ ‘ They put a rope round my neck, tied it to a 
limb an’ led my hawss out from under me. I 
come pretty near chokin’ to death before Jim 
got the effect he wanted and then the darned 
censors cut the hangin’ scene plumb out of the 
film. This emotional stuff is a cinch! Wait till • 
they ask you to fall off a hawss or something 
like that!’ ’ 

“Hurry, Miss Aldine!” called Montague. 
“Get back into that gingham thing. You’re in 
the boarding house again. ’ ’ 

The rest of the morning was a cruel night¬ 
mare. Mrs. Gribble choked in the steam above 
a boiler, she draped herself over a tub and re¬ 
newed her acquaintance with the corrugated 
surface of a washboard, she ironed four shirts, 
she scrubbed a floor, she washed a mountain of 
dirty dishes and dried them upon an unclean 
towel. Every soft muscle ached, every dainty 
instinct cried out against these outrages. Her 
spirit alone sustained her. She \yas thinking 
of the second reel and hoping that the promised 
contrast would be striking enough to make up 
for the physical discomforts of the first. 

“Half an hour for lunch!” called Montague. 
“Get busy on that dining room set, boys!” 

Mrs. Gribble dragged herself to the dressing 
room and fell in a limp heap upon her trunk. 

[ 352 ] 





“this is the life!” 


“Yo’ call dat actin’?” demanded Martha. 
“Looks mo* to me like plain pot-wrastlin’!” 

“It will show contrast,” sighed Mrs. Gribhle. 

“An’ dat ain’t all!” sniffed Martha. “Yo’ 
wouldn’t even let Mist’ Gribble see yo’ in a 
nasty rag like whut yo’ got on an’ dese folks 
done tooken yo’ picture in it fo’ eve’ybody to 
laugh at! Dat’s contrast, I reckon! I declah 
to goodness, Miss Addie, I dunno whut yo’ see 
in dishyer movie business to he so crazy ’bout!” 

“Be quiet, Martha!” snapped Mrs. Gribble. 
“Your opinion is not called for!” 

“Yas’m, Miss Addie, but I’m tellin’ 
yo’-” 

“Will you hush? Take this filthy thing off 
and get me a kimono. ’ ’ 

In an inconceivably short space of time Mon¬ 
tague’s fist was hammering on the door. 

“All ready for you, Miss Aldine! As you 
were in the last scene, please!” 

Mrs. Gribble groaned as Martha assisted her 
into the loathed Mother Hubbard, and she 
limped out to serve twenty miners with cold, 
greasy pancakes, an unsavory mess of pork and 
cabbage and steaming coffee. It was some slight 
satisfaction to find that the handsome La Rue 
was one of her boarders and Buck Parvin’s eyes 
twinkled at her above a thicket of moving pic¬ 
ture whiskers, but the presence of professional 
talent was more than offset by the odor of pork 
and cabbage which almost made Mrs. Gribble 
ill. She was thankful that it was her duty to 
[ 353 ] 






BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


serve the food and not to eat it, but in this she 
reckoned without James Montague, director. 

“You will eat in the kitchen, Miss Aldine,” 
said he. 

And eat she did, though her stomach revolted 
and her soul rebelled. Mrs. Gribble had never 
liked pork and cabbage, even when she knew 
who cooked it. 

“Is there—very much more of this?” she 
asked. 

“Why, we’ve only begun,” said Montague. 
“You’ll have a change now, though. We’ll do 
some location stuff. The boys are all in their 
costumes so we might as well make the chases. ’ ’ 

“Chases?” said Mrs. Gribble. 

“It won’t be a real moving picture without 
chases,” said Montague. “Audiences like ’em 4 
and expect ’em. This is where you get a chance 
to show how fast you can run.” 

“I—I don’t think I can run very fast,” said 
Mrs. Gribble. 

“You’ll have to.” Montague referred to his 
script. ‘ ‘ See all these figures ? They represent 
chases. The miners suspect that you have sold 
information to a Wall Street syndicate. They 
drive you out of the camp. You flee into the 
hills. They follow. . . . Better put on some 
thick shoes with low heels and take along a 
cloak to wear between times so that you won’t 
catch cold. Don’t change that gingham dress. 
It’s a good thing to run in.” 

[ 354 ] 






1 i THIS IS THE LIFE!” 


“I haven’t done any running since I was a 
girl,” said Mrs. Gribble. 

“ Yon 'll soon get hardened to it,” said Monta¬ 
gue, encouragingly. ‘ ‘ A moving picture actress 
has to be a good runner. It’s one of the first 
things she learns. You will be ready to leave 
in my auto in five minutes and you may take 
your maid with you. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Gribble learned to run. She ran until 
she could run no more, always with a mob of 
miners in close pursuit. She ran through the 
streets of small suburban towns and the inhabi¬ 
tants swarmed to the sidewalks with ironical 
cheers and yells of “Go to it, Fatty! We’re 
bettin’ on you!” She ran on mountain roads 
covered with sharp, flinty stones; she ran 
through deep sand; she ran uphill, downhill and 
’cross country. Art is long but Mrs. Gribble’s 
breath was short and when it failed her she 
begged for mercy. 

“I—I c-c-can’t run another step!” she 
wailed. “I simply can’t!” 

“You’re a bit fat for this sort of thing,” re¬ 
marked Montague, impersonally, “but you’ll 
soon sweat it off. You waddle too much now; 
I’m afraid an audience would mistake these 
scenes for comedy relief. Get your wind and 
then I’ll rest you with some climbing stuff.” 

The climbing stuff was even more tiring than 
the runs. The spirit was willing but the flesh 
was weak and soft and oh, so weary! 

“Straight up that hill and over the skyline,” 

[ 355 ] 








BUCK PAKVIN AND THE IIOVIES 


said Montague. “We’ll tilt the camera and 
keep you in the picture. Ready—action—go!” 

Up, up, up she went, spurred on by yells from 
the heartless director and howls from the blood¬ 
thirsty miners. 

“Faster! Faster!” shouted Montague. 
“Make it snappy, Miss Aldine, make it 
snappy ! 9 9 

Sick, dizzy and blinded by the streaming per¬ 
spiration, Mrs. Gribble endeavored to make it 
snappy. She put the last ounce of her strength 
into a desperate attempt to reach the summit of 
the hill, hut a loose boulder turned as she 
stepped on it and she fell heavily, rolling into a 
patch of whitethorn. Sputtering incoherently, 
Martha scrambled to the rescue, followed by 
Montague and Buck Parvin. 

“Your maid spoiled a great scene by running 
in on it , 9 9 said the director. 4 ‘ Take a rest and 
then we’ll try it again.” 

“Look yere, man,” snapped Martha, “whut 
yo’ tryin’ to do, kill dis lady? Kain’t yo’ see 
she’s all in?” 

“That will do, Martha!” panted Mrs. Grib¬ 
ble. “Hold your tongue!” 

“Lots of gameness but no sense,” murmured 
Buck Parvin. “ I’ve seen men that was troubled 
that way but mighty few women. . . . Well, 
ma’am, this is the life!” 

Mr. Gribble spoke the truth when he said that 
there was more to him than appeared upon the 
[ 356 ] 




“this is the life!” 


surface. Not least of his uncatalogued virtues 
was the ability to see much, say little and bide 
his time. Greater men than Elmer Gribble have 
lacked this gift. 

When his wife answered him in monosyllables 
and dozed at the dinner table he said nothing; 
when she decided to retire immediately after 
dessert, he sat alone and grinned at the smoke 
as it curled upward from his cigar. Later he 
poked his head in at the door of his wife’s 
room. 

“Tired, Addie?” said he. 

“Not in the least,” sighed Mrs. Gribble. 
“I’m only relaxing, that’s all.” 

“You like this movie business then!” said 
he. 

“Simply mad about it!” 

“Ah hah,” said Mr. Gribble. 

“Yas’m, Miss Addie,” said Martha, “but 
y’all betteh lemme rub yo’ wif dis linimint or 
yo’ won’ be able to act none to-morrer.” 

Mr. Gribble, thus banished to the hall, exe¬ 
cuted something remotely resembling a double¬ 
shuffle. 


IV 

Ox the morning of the second day the elec¬ 
tric coupe delivered a cargo of aches and pains 
at the Titan Studio and Buck, watching the 
lady’s progress, rolled a cigarette and mused 
aloud. 


[ 357 ] 







BUCK PARYIK AND THE MOVIES 


“She walks like that lame camel out to the 
animal farm,” said he. “Yes, she sure favors 
that nigh hoof a lot. . . . Good morning Miss 
Aldine. How do you like actin’ as far’s you’ve 
gone ? ’ ’ 

“It’s lovely!” said Mrs. Gribble. “This is 
the life, Mr. Parvin!” 

“Yeh,” said Buck to himself as the lady hob¬ 
bled into Montague’s office , 4 ‘ this is the life, you 
bet, but not for fat people.” 

Again Mr. Montague was all business. 

“Ah! Gingham again this morning, please, 
Miss Aldine!” 

Mrs. Gribble was disappointed and showed it. 

“I thought we might begin the second reel 
to-day,” she pouted. 

“Did you? Why, we’ve hardly begun the 
first one. It has something like seventy scenes 
in it. We haven’t even touched the stunt stuff 
yet.” 

Stunt stuff! Mrs. Gribble recalled Buck Par¬ 
vin’s cheerful prophecies with a slight sensa¬ 
tion of uneasiness. There was an anxious note 
in her voice as she spoke. 

“Are—are the stunts any harder than the 
ones I did yesterday?” 

Montague laughed. 

“You didn’t do any stunts yesterday,” said 
he. “That was just the usual run of picture 
stuff. A stunt is something that requires mus¬ 
cle—nerve—courage. Of course, I try to elim¬ 
inate as many chances of injury as I can. I 
[ 358 ] 





do not like to have our people hurt. In case 
they are, the company stands the hospital bills, 
but even so, a stunt actress is hard to find. 
Most women lack your courage. I will be frank 
with you, Miss Aldine. In straight parts you 
will probably never amount to anything because 
your acting is very bad, but the stunts will 
carry you through. If you stick to me, I will 
make you the leading stunt actress of America.’’ 

This was news indeed, but it did not make 
Mrs. Gribble happy. It made her distinctly un¬ 
comfortable. 

“And what will I be expected to do?” she 
asked. 

“Oh, pretty much everything in the athletic 
line,” answered Montague, carelessly. “Ride 
a horse, swim, do a jump once in a while, work 
with wild animals-” 

“Oh!” cried Mrs. Gribble. “I never was on 
a horse in my life, I can’t swim and I’m deathly 
afraid of animals!” 

“You can learn to ride and swim and you’ll 
get used to animals, ’ ’ said Montague. 4 4 Just as 
it happens you won’t have to ride or swim in 
this picture and the scenario does not call for 
animals. The stunts are easy ones. You will 
escape from a burning building by means of a 
rope—the boys will tie it round you and let 
you down to the ground—you will climb a few 
fences and do one falling jump into water—oh, 
that’s all right. It won’t be over your head, 
Miss Aldine. Perhaps it would be more spec- 
[ 359 ] 








BUCK PAKVIN AND THE MOVIES 


tacular if yon could manage a head-first 
dive-” 

“I can’t! I can’t! I know I can’t!” cried 
Mrs. Gribble. 

‘ 1 Never say yon can’t do anything until 
you’ve tried,” said the director. “You will 
jump on a moving train and off again; you 
will be in a taxicab collision and a few little 
things like that. Positively no danger, I assure 
you, but would you believe that eight women 
refused to play this part before you turned 
up? They hadn’t the nerve.” 

“I—I think you might have told me!” said 
Mrs. Gribble. 

“I’m telling you now,” said Mr. Montague. 

The afternoon shadows were long among the 
trees of a wooded valley when two men crashed 
through the underbrush and stood upon the 
edge of a black pool of water, its surface cov¬ 
ered with weeds and moss. This particular 
spot is an old friend and favorite location of 
moving picture directors and has appeared in 
countless films, sometimes as an impenetrable 
swamp, sometimes as the scene of bloody con¬ 
flict, but more often as the spot where the un¬ 
fortunate comedian takes his involuntary bath. 

“It’s the last hurdle,” said one of the men. 
“If this doesn’t finish her, I swear I don’t 
know what to do next.” 

“Too game for her own good,” murmured 
the other. “When we let her down from the 
[ 360 ] 





“this IS THE LIFE!” 


roof and left her hanging in the air for fifteen 
minutes while Charlie fooled with the camera, 
I thought she’d surely quit. And she climbed 
those fences like a scairt cat. 'YVhat’s the idea, 
Jim?” 

“The idea is a cure for film infatuation,” said 
the other. Then, lifting up his voice: “This 
way with the camera! ’ ’ 

Other figures drew near and last of all came 
a woman, worn and weary and clad in a ging¬ 
ham dress. She limped painfully to the edge of 
the pool, looked at the water and the weeds and 
then at James Montague. 

“I’m to jump into this—this mudhole?” said 
she. 

“Yes, Miss Aldine. Off the limb of that tree 
right into the middle of it,” said the director. 

“But ... it’s dirty water!” said Mrs. Grib- 
ble, faintly. 

“Ah, but look at the location!” said Monta¬ 
gue. “The background is wonderful and the 
water isn’t more than four feet deep.” 

“I won’t!” cried Mrs. Gribble. “I can’t!” 

“You must,” said the director, with firmness. 
“I can’t spoil this picture just because you’re 
squeamish about a little dirt. We will help 
you into the tree. Hurry, please, the light is 
failing.” 

The habit of obedience prevailed; Mrs. Grib¬ 
ble was assisted into the tree, complaining bit¬ 
terly. 


[ 361 ] 









BUCK PARVIIT AND THE MOVIES 


“It’s so far!” said she, looking down at the 
pool. 

“What? A little jump like that?” said the 
director. “Now we can’t rehearse this because 
we haven’t another costume for yon. We’ll 
make it the first time. Get out on the limb as 
far as you can and when I give the word, jump. 
Make as much of a splash as you can and exit 
on the other side of the pool. Got the lines, 
Charlie? All right. Now, Miss Aldine, as soon 
as you are ready, please.” 

“I’m afraid!’’ said the lady. “It’s too far!’’ 

“Kain’t yo’ see yo’ got her scairt to death?” 
demanded Martha, from the brink. “She ain’t 
no divin’ Venus, she ain’t! Miss Addie, le’s 
quit dis play actin’ an’ go home!” 

“Silence!” commanded Montague. “Now 
then, Miss Aldine!” 

“Miss Aldine!” sniffed Martha. “Yo’ wait 
till her husban’ hears ’bout dis foolishness!” 

“Ready?” shouted Montague. “Now then 
—jump! ’ ’ 

Mrs. Gribble looked at the branches above her 
head, at the pool below and closed her eyes. 

“I ca-an’t!” she quavered. 

“Why don’t you jump?” bellowed Montague. 

Mrs. Gribble loosed her hold and fell; the 
black water closed over her head with a mighty 
splash. She reappeared, festooned with green 
tendrils and moss, half strangled and sputter¬ 
ing. 


[ 362 ] 





“this is the life!” 


11 Out! Out on the other side!’ 9 yelled Monta¬ 
gue. 

Mrs. Gribble dragged herself to the bank, a 
bedraggled spectacle calculated to win pity 
from any masculine heart. Martha ran to her 
with the blanket which Montague had provided. 
Mrs. Gribble, weeping hysterically, allowed her¬ 
self to be led to a tree and leaned against the 
trunk for support. 

1 ‘ Dis is enough monkeyshines!’ 9 said Martha 
sternly. “Yo’ heah me, Miss Addie? Dis is 
enough!” 

Montague and Dupree had their heads to¬ 
gether in close consultation. 

‘ ‘ Oh, Miss Aldine! ’’ said the director. 

“Yes,” answered a weak voice. “What is it 
now?” 

“Get that dress washed to-night,” said Mon¬ 
tague, “and have it ready the first thing in 
the morning. We’ll have to make this scene 
over again. Charlie ran out of film.” 

Mrs. Gribble slipped to the ground in a faint. 


V 

Elmer Gribble sat by the side of the bed and 
held his wife’s hand. A smaller man might 
have found the opportunity to say “I told 
you so.” 

“I do not know anything about such mat¬ 
ters,” said Mr. Gribble, “but it seems to me 
[ 363 ] 








BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES 


that you are legally bound to fill this engage¬ 
ment. It would be regarded as a—a sort of 
a contract-” 

“I didn’t agree to let that brute Montague 
drown me! ’’ wailed Mrs. Gribble. 1 ‘ Oh, Elmer, 
if you could have seen that filthy mudhole! If 
you care anything for me at all—anything at 
all!” 

“There, there, Addle,” said Mr. Gribble, 
soothingly. “If you’re sure that you won’t 
want to go back next week-” 

‘ ‘ I hope I ’ll never see a moving picture studio 
again!” cried Mrs. Gribble. “I hope I’ll never 
see a film again! Oh, Elmer, get me out of this 
scrape and I’ll never say ‘ movie’ to you as long 
as I live! ’ ’ 

“I will do the best I can,” said Mr. Gribble. 
“I will see this man Montague to-morrow morn¬ 
ing.” 

Mrs. Gribble wept and fell asleep to dream 
that Buck Parvin and the camera man were try¬ 
ing to throw her into the Grand Canyon of the 
Colorado while James Montague stood by and 
talked of Art and the courage required of a 
stunt actress. Mr. Gribble still held her hand, 
patting it gently from time to time. His emo¬ 
tions did not appear upon the surface, but in¬ 
side of him there was an immense satisfaction 
and, at wicked intervals, a desire to laugh. 

The next morning Buck Parvin, adjusting a 
shirt of mail in the door of his dressing room, 
[ 364 ] 




“this is the life!” 

observed another stranger who seemed to know 
the w T ay to Montague’s office. 

“There goes prosperity on the hoof,” said 
Buck to Ben. “Head up and tail over the dash¬ 
board, too. You reckon he wants to have a 
picture made of himself?” 

Mr. Montague looked up at his visitor and 
grinned. 

“It worked, did it?” said he. 

“Like a charm!” said Mr. Gribble. “I am 
to tell you that you are a brute. Accept my 
thanks and congratulations on a very complete 
job.” 

“I did have to be a bit rough with her,” said 
Montague, “but you said the case was desper¬ 
ate. I think the cure will be lasting . 9 9 

“I am sure of it,” said Mr. Gribble, taking 
out his pocketbook. The check which he laid 
in front of the director bore a signature but 
was otherwise blank. “Fill it in yourself,” 
said Mr. Gribble, “and go as far as you like. 
It’s worth it . 9 9 

James Montague folded the check carefully 
and tearing it across, dropped it into the waste- 
paper basket. 

“A laugh is the scarcest thing in the world,” 
said he. “Your wife has handed me several. 
Shall we consider our original agreement void 
and the account closed?” 

That evening Mr. Gribble searched high and 
low but could not find his wife. The servants 
were also missing. As a last resort he entered 
[ 365 ] 





BUCK PARYIK AND THE MOVIES 


the kitchen and there discovered Mrs. Gribble 
in the act of frying a pan of breaded veal cut¬ 
lets. 

“Addie!” said he. 

“I told Boggs and the cook that they could 
take the afternoon and evening off,” said she. 
“We’ll have an old-fashioned dinner, Elmer.” 

“With brown gravy?” said Mr. Gribble. 

“Yes, and mashed potatoes. . . . There, 
Elmer, that’ll do! You mustn’t hug the cook. 
She’s busy!” 

This may or may not be the reason why 
James Montague is wearing a very handsome 
diamond ring. 


THE END 


[ 366 ] 




THE NOVELS OF 

MARY ROBERT S RINEHART 

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Srosset & Dunlap’s list. 

DANGEROUS DAYsT~ 

A brilliant story of married life. A romance of fine purpose and 
stirnmg appeal. 

THE AMAZING INTERLUDE. 

Illustrations by The Kinneys. 

The story of a great love which cannot be pictured—an interlude i 
—amazing, romantic. 

LOVE STORIES. 

This book is exactly what its title indicates, a collection of love 
affairs—sparkling with humor, tenderness and sweetness. 

M K. M Illustrated. 

K. LeMoyne, famous surgeon, goes to live in a little town where 
beautiful Sidney Page lives. She is in training to become a nurse. 

, The joys and troubles of their young love are told with keen and 
sympathetic appreciation. 

> THE MAN IN LOWER TEN. 

Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy. 

An absorbing detective story woven around the mysterious death 
of the “Man in Lower Ten.” 

WHEN A MAN MARRIES. 

Illustrated by Harrison Fisher and Mayo Bunker. 

A young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him, finds that 
his aunt is soon to visit him. The aunt, who contributes to the 
family income, knows nothing of the domestic upheaval. How the 
young man met the situation is entertainingly told. 

THE CIRCULAR STAIRCASE. Illustrated by Lester Ralph. 

The occupants of “Sunnyside” find the dead body of Arnold 
Armstrong on the circular staircase. Following the murder a bank 
failure is announced. Around these two events is woven a plot of 
absorbing interest. 

THE STREET OF SEVEN STARS. (Photoplay Edition.) 

Harmony Wells, studying in Vienna to be a great violinist, sud< 
denly realizes that her money is almost gone. She meets a young 
ambitious doctor who offers her chivalry and sympathy, and together 
with world-worn Dr. Anna and Jimmie, the waif, they share their 
love and slender means. 

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York 
































EDGAR RICE BURROUGH’S 
NOVELS__ 

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list. 

TARZAN THE UNTAMED 

Tells of Tarzan’s return to the life of the ape-man in 
his search for vengeance on those who took from him his 
wife and home. 

JUNGLE TALES OF TARZAN 

Records the many wonderful exploits by which Tarzan 
proves his right to ape kingship. 

A PRINCESS OF MARS 

Forty-three million miles from the earth—a succession 
of the weirdest and most astounding adventures in fiction. 
John Carter, American, finds himself on the planet Mars, 
battling for a beautiful woman, with the Green Men of 
Mars, terrible creatures fifteen feet high, mounted on 
horses like dragons. 

THE GODS OF MARS 

Continuing John Carter’s adventures on the Planet Mars, 
in which he does battle against the ferocious “plant men,” 
creatures whose mighty tails swished their victims to instant 
death, and defies Issus, the terrible Goddess of Death, 
whom all Mars worships and reveres. 

THE WARLORD OF MARS 

Old acquaintances, made in the two other stories, reap¬ 
pear, Tars Tarkas, Tardos Mors and others. There is a 
happy ending to the story in the union of the Warlord, 
the title conferred upon John Carter, with Dejah Thoris. 

THUVIA, MAID OF MARS 
The fourth volume of the series. The story centers 
around the adventures of Carthoris, the son of John Car¬ 
ter and Thuvia, daughter of a Martian Emperor. 


GROSSET & DUNLAP. Publishers, NEW YORK 























“ STORM COUNTRY” BOOKS BY 

GRACE MILLER WHITE 


May bo had wherever books are sold. Ask for Srosset & Dunlap's list 

JUDY OF ROGUES’ HARBOR 

Judy’s untutored ideas of God, her love of wild thfngSi 
her faith in life are quite as inspiring as those of Tess. 
Her faith and sincerity catch at your heart strings. Thi* 
book has all of the mystery and tense action of the other 
Storm Country books. 

TESS OF THE STORM COUNTRY 

It was as Tess, beautiful, wild, impetuous, that Mary 
Pickford made her reputation as a motion picture actress. 
How love acts upon a temperament such as hers—a tem¬ 
perament that makes a woman an angel or an outcast, ac¬ 
cording to the character of, the man she loves—is the 
theme of the story. 

THE SECRET OF THE STORM COUNTRY 

The sequel to “ Tess of the Storm Country,” with the 
same wild background, with its half-gypsy life of the squat¬ 
ters—tempestuous, passionate, brooding. Tess learns the 
“ secret ” of her birth and finds happiness and love through 
her boundless faith in life. 

FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING 

A haunting story with its scene laid near the country 
familiar to readers of “ Tess of the Storm Country.” 

ROSE O’ PARADISE 

“ Jinny” Singleton, wild, lovely, lonely, but with a pas¬ 
sionate yearning for music, grows up in the house of Lafe 
Grandoken, a crippled cobbler of the Storm Country. Her 
romance is full of power and glory and tenderness. 


Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction 

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York 

























JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD’S 

STORIES OF ADVENTURE 

May be had wharever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list 

THE RIVER’S END ~ 

A story of the Royal Mounted Police. 

THE GOLDEN SNARE 

Thrilling adventures in the Far Northland. 

NOMADS OF THE NORTH 

The story of a bear-cub and a dog. 

KAZAN 

The tale of a “quarter-strain wolf and three-quarters husky” torn 
between the call of the human and his wild mate. 

BAREE, SON OF KAZAN 

The story of the son of the blind Grey Wolf and the gallant part 
he played in the lives of a man and a woman. 

THE COURAGE OF CAPTAIN PLUM 

The story of the King of Beaver Island, a Mormon colony, and his 
battle with Captain Plum. 

THE DANGER TRAIL 

A tale of love, Indian vengeance, and a mystery of the North. 
THE HUNTED WOMAN 
A tale of a great fight in the “ valley of gold ” for a woman. 

THE FLOWER OF THE NORTH 

The story of Fort o’ God, where the wild flavor of the wilderness 
Is blended with the courtly atmosphere of France. 

THE GRIZZLY KING 

The story of Thor, the big grizzly. 

ISOBEL 

A love story of the Far North. 

THE WOLF HUNTERS 

I A thrilling tale of adventure in the Canadian wilderness. 

THE GOLD HUNTERS 
The story of adventure in the Hudson Bay wilds. 

THE COURAGE OF MARGE O’DOONE 
Filled with exciting incidents in the land of strong men and women. 
BACK TO GOD’S COUNTRY 

A thrilling story of the Far North. The great Photoplay was made 
from this book. 


Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York 




























SEWELL FORD’S STORIES 

_ May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Srossat & Dunla p's list 

SHORTY McCABE. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. 

A very humorous story. The hero, an independent and vigorous 
thinker, sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way 
SIDE-STEPPING WITH SHORTY. 

^iiustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. 

Twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles, Sympathy 
with human nature and an abounding sense of humor are the requi* 
Sites for “side-stepping with Shorty.” 

SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB. 

Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. 

Shorty McCabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped 
right up to the minute. He aids in the right distribution of a 
conscience fund,” and gives joy to all concerned. 

SHORTY McCABE’S ODD NUMBERS; 

Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson. 

These further chronicles of Shorty McCabe tell of jia studio for 
physical culture, and of his experiences both on the East side and at 
swell yachting parties. 

TORCHY. Illus, by Geo. Biehm and Jas. Montgomery Flagg. 

A red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom pe¬ 
culiar to the youths reared on the sidewalks of New York, tells tha 
story of his experiences. 

TRYING OUT TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. 

Torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was i» 
the previous book. 

ON WITH TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. 

Torchy ^'alls desperately in love with “the only girl that ever 
was,” but that young society woman’s aunt tries to keep the young 
people apart, which brings about many hilariously funny situations, 
T ORCHY, PRIVATE SEC. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln. 

‘ Torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary 
lor the Corrugated Iron Company. The story is full of humor and 
Infectious American slang. 

WILT THOU TORCHY. Illus. by F. Snapp and A„ W. Brown. 

Torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the Florida West 
Coast, in company with a group of friends of the Corrugated Trust 
and with his friend’s aunt, on which trip Torchy wins the aunt’s 
permission to place an engagement ring on Vee’s finger. 

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers , New York 






























BOOTH TARKINGTON’S 
NOVELS 

May ba had wherever books ore sold. Asklfor Gross et & Dunlap’s list 

SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by Arthur William Brown. 

, No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed 
the immortal young people of this story. Its humor is irre¬ 
sistible and reminiscent of the time when the reader was 
Seventeen. 

•PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant. 

This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, hu¬ 
morous, tragic things which are locked secrets to most older 
folks. It is a finished, exquisite work. 

PENROD AND SAM. Illustrated by Worth Brehm. 

Like “ Penrod ” and “ Seventeen," this book contains 
some remarkable phases of real boyhood and some of the best 
stories of juvenile prankishness that have ever been written. 

THE TURMOIL. Illustrated by C. E. Chambers. 

Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who re¬ 
volts against his father’s plans for him to be a servitor of 
big business. The love of a fine girl turns Bibb’s life from 
failure to success. 

THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. Frontispiece. 

A story of love and politics,—more especially a picture of 
a country editor’s life in Indiana, but the charm of the book 
lies in the love interest. 

THE FLIRT. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood. 

The “ Flirt,’’ the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's 
f engagement, drives one man to suicide, causes the murder 
of another, leads another to lose his fortune, and in the end 
-marries a stupid and unpromising suitor, leaving the really 
worthy one to marry her sister. 


Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction 

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York 
























JACK LONDON’S N OVELS 

May be had w he rever books a re sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list 

JOHN BARLEYCORN . Illustrated by H. T. Dunn. 

This remarkable book is a record of the author’s own amazing 
experiences. This big, brawny world rover, who has been ac¬ 
quainted with alcohol from boyhood, comes out boldly against John 
Barleycorn. It is a string of exciting adventures, yet it forcefully 
conveys an unforgetable idea and makes a typical Jack London book. 

THE VALLEY OF THE MOON. Frontispiece by George Harper. 

The story opens in the city slums where Billy Roberts, teamster 
and ex-prize fighter, and Saxon Brown, laundry worker, meet and 
love and marry. They tramp from one end of California to the 
other, and in the Valley of the Moon find the farm paradise that is 
to be their salvation. 

BURNING DAYLIGHT. Four illustrations. 

The story of an adventurer who went to Alaska and laid the 
foundations of his fortune before the gold hunters arrived. Bringing 
his fortunes to the States he is cheated out of it by a crowd of money 
kings, and recovers it only at the muzzle of his gun. He then starts 
out as?a merciless exploiter on his own account. Finally he takes to • 
drinking and becomes a picture of degeneration. About this time ' 
he falls in love with his stenographer and wins her heart but not ' 
her hand and then—but read the story I 

A SON OF THE SUN . Illustrated by A. O. Fischer and C.W. Ashley. 

David Grief was once a light-haired, blue-eyed youth who came 
from England to the South Seas in search of adventure. Tanned 
like a native and as lithe as a tiger, he became a real son of the sun. 
The life appealed to him and he remained and became very wealthy. 

THE CALL OF THE WILD. Illustrations by Philip R. Goodwin and 
Charles Livingston Bull. Decorations by Charles E. Hooper. 

A book of dog adventures as exciting as any man’s exploits 
could be. Here is excitement to stir the blood and here is pictur- 
•csque color to transport the reader to primitive scenes. 

THE SEA WOLF. Illustrated by W. J. Aylward. 

Told by a man whom Fate suddenly swings from his fastidious 
life into the power of the brutal captain of a sealing schooner. A 
novel of adventure warmed by a beautiful love episode that every 
reader will hail with delight. 

WHITE FANG. Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull. 

* c White Fang” is part dog, part wolf and all brute, living in the 
frozen north; he gradually comes under the spell of man’s com¬ 
panionship, and surrenders all at the last in a fight with a bull dog. 
Thereafter he is man’s loving slave. 


Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers), New York 































NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY 

WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE 


May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 


MAVERICKS 

A tale of the western frontier, where the “rustler” abounds. One of the sweetest 
Hove stories ever told. 

A TEXAS RANGER 

How a member of the border police saved the life of an innocent man, followed 3 
fugitive to Wyoming, and then passed through deadly peril to ultimate happiness. 

WYOMING 

In this vivid story the author brings out the turbid life of the frontier with all it* 
engaging dash and vigor. 

RIDGWAY OF MONTANA 

The ecene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics and mining in¬ 
dustries are the religion of the country. 

BUCKY O'CONNOR 

Every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with the dashing 
spirit of the border. 

CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT 

A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter feud bo- 
tween cattle-men and sheep-herders. 

BRAND BLOTTERS 

A story of the turbid life of the frontier with a charming love interest running 
through its page*. 

STEVE YEAGER 

A story brimful of excitement, with enough gun-play and adventure to suit anyone. 

A DAUGHTER OF THE DONS 

t A Western story of romance and adventure, comprising a vivacious and stirring 
tale. 

THE HIGH GRADER 

t A breezy, pleasant and amusing love story of Western mining life. 

THE PIRATE OF PANAMA 

* A tale of old-time pirates and of modern love, hate and adventure. 

THE YUKON TRAIL 

A crisply entertaining love story in the land where might makes right. 

THE VISION SPLENDID 

In which two cousins are contestants for the same prizes; political honors and the 
hand of a girl. 

THE SHERIFF’S SON 

The hero finally conquers both himself and his enemies and wins the love of a 
wonderful girl. 


Grosset Sc Dunlap, Publishers, New York 

m i rm taammmmammaHmatam ii u ii w r i imiwwitwii i v mammaatmBmMmmammmmKmmammmmaB 





























ZANE GREY’S NOVELS 

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list. 

THE MAN OF THE FOREST 
THE DESERT OF WHEAT J 

.---—.a 

THE U. P. TRAIL 
WILDFIRE 

THE BORDER LEGION 
THE RAINBOW TRAIL 
THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT 
RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 
THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 
THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN 
THE LONE STAR RANGER 
DESERT GOLD 
BETTY ZANE 

* * * * * * * 

LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS 

The life story of “Buffalo Bill” by his sister Helen Cody 
Wetmore, with Foreword and conclusion by Zane Grey. 

ZANE GREY'S BOOKS FOR BOYS 

KEN WARD IN THE JUNGLE 

THE YOUNG LION HUNTER 
THE YOUNG FORESTER 
THE YOUNG PITCHER 

THE SHORT STOP 

THE RED-HEADED OU TFIELD AND OTHER 
BASEBALL STORIES 

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York 











































——— ■■■ ■ ■ I .. .1 i ii. i i.n ■ i m. fc—» 

B. M. BOWER’S NOVELS 

May ba had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap’s list 

CHIP OF THE FLYING U. Wherein the 1 ove affairs of Chip and 
Della Whitman are charmingly and humorously told. 

THE HAPPY FAMILY. A lively and amusing story, dealing with 
the adventures of eighteen jovial, big hearted Montana cowboys* 

HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT. Describing a gay party of Easterner^ 
who exchange a cottage at Newport for a Montana ranch-house.' 

THE RANGE DWELLERS. Spirited action, a range feud be- 
two families, and a Romeo and Juliet courtship make this a bright, 
jolly story. i 

THE LURE OF THE DIM TRAILS. A vivid portrayal of the 
experience of an Eastern author among the cowboys. ^ 

THE LONESOME TRAIL. A little branch of sage brush and the 
recollection of a pair of large brown eyes upset “Weary” David¬ 
son’s plans. 1 

THE LONG SHADOW. A vigorous Western story, sparkling with 
the free outdoor life of a mountain ranch. It is a fine love story. 

GOOD INDIAN. A stirring romance of life on an Idaho ranch. 

FLYING U RANCH. Another delightful story about Chip and 
his pals. 

THE FLYING U’S LAST STAND. An amusing account of Chip 
and the other boys opposing a party of school teachers. 

THE UPHILL CLIMB. A story of a mountain ranch and of a 
man’s hard fight on the uphill road to manliness. 

THE PHANTOM HERD. The title of a moving-picture staged la 
New Mexico by the “Flying U” boys. 

THE HERITAGE OF THE SIOUX. The “ Flying U ” boys stags 
a fake bank robbery for film purposes which precedes a real onp 
for lust of gold. 

THE GRINGOS. A story of love and adventure on a ranch is 
California. 

STARR OF THE DESERT. A New Mexico ranch story of my®* 
tery and adventure. 

THE LOOKOUT MAN. A Northern California story full of action^ 
excitement and love. 


Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York 

P ii l.. - r ... 


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